A Case of You
by SparrowNotes24
Summary: He's her warning. She's his sweet temptation. An addict always wants what he can't have, even if it will ruin him. "Speak of the devil and she shall appear. Who am I kidding? I'm Beelzebub."
1. Chapter 1

**A Case of You**

 _He's her warning. She's his sweet temptation._

 _An addict always wants what he can't have, even if it will ruin him._

" _Speak of the devil and she shall appear._

 _Who am I fucking kidding._

 _I'm Beelzebub."_

* * *

 **(One)**

I have a brilliant memory.

At least until I switch off. Then information bounces off me and disappears into thin air. That's happening a lot more to me these days. I tell myself it's a choice, but I'm starting to realize it's a mechanism I have less and less control over.

In my defense, people talk a lot of shit.

Emmett was full of it last time we talked, which is why I'm here on 42nd and Blake, standing outside a locked and darkened door instead of where I should be if I'd listened.

I caught three buses to get over to this side of town, so I try the handle again as if I'm expecting the outcome to be any different the second time around. It's still locked. _Fuck._

In typical Seattle style, it's starting to drizzle. I step back onto the stoop and pull out my Marlboros—another dirty habit. _One_ _I'll allow myself_ , I think, as I strike the last match from the book I carry in my pocket. I shove the empty matchbook from _The Electric_ back in my jeans with its memories of jalapeno nuts, shitty house music, and a pretty little blonde who'd sneak me extra inches of Jack in exchange for a quick fuck after her shift.

You see what I'm saying about my memories? Infallible.

I use the sharp burn of the nicotine to bring myself back into focus, and pull out my phone. Three messages from Em. He's pissed. Really pissed this time. The new address he sends me is across town—I'll never make it before the end of the meeting. I fire him a message back and watch the rain turn the asphalt into a mirror reflecting the neon lights of the street, momentarily distorted as cars drive by.

It's been 243 days since my veins pumped liquor.

I was supposed to be getting an important token tonight. Eight months sober.

I was supposed to talk to the group: the successfuls, the try hards, and the fuck-ups. I'm hovering on the edge of a success story but can't help wondering when my status as a true fuck-up will be discovered. 243 days, 246 days, 527 and every day in between. It's a thin line. It's only through the sheer determination of Em and my sister Ally, that I've got this far. And maybe me—I guess I should get some of the credit. Though on days like this, I could cave as easily as a sandcastle.

The reason? There isn't one. I just want a drink. I could kill for one. But I won't, because I promised.

My phone starts vibrating. "Hey, Em," I say, watching the smoke from my lips curl up into the dark night.

"Where are you?" He's hushed so I guess the meeting has already kicked off.

"At the same place as last week," I repeat, knowing he's already seen my text, so he's busting my balls.

"I told you we had to switch meetings. There're renovations." He sighs, and I picture him scrubbing the top of his shorn hair. He does that when I piss him off.

"Yeah, I missed that memo. Sorry, Em," I say, and I sound it, too. Because I'm nothing if not a good liar. It's a skill I learned from my father.

"It's fine, but we should meet tomorrow, if you can. It'd be good to catch up. You've been quiet this week."

"Yeah, busy at work." The ink stains on my hands show the truth. The newspaper's presses were running overtime in a bid to get out some scandal about a politician, so I offered to help the printers rather than battle with insomnia. "I'm off at four tomorrow. We could meet for a drink? A coffee," I clarify with a laugh. The habit is impossible to forget. It's as ingrained as knowing how to read. The alphabet of addiction.

"Cool. I'll see you then."

I end the call and light up another smoke as the rain intensifies. A group spills out of a bar across the street, laughter and music bursting into the waterlogged night.

The irony of a bar opposite an AA meeting is not lost on me. A few of us have joked about escaping there if it ever gets too much. It always fucking feels that way, but I've never crossed the street. Others have, and they wear their guilt like an invisible cloak, unmistakable to others skilled in the art of denial.

A coffee shop and secondhand book store cling to either side of the bar, cowering from their brighter, noisier neighbor, and a Chinese restaurant blocks off the corner. Tonight, the smell it churns out makes my mouth water. On previous nights, earlier in the year, I would've lost the contents of my stomach to the gutter.

I check the bus times. Ten minutes until the next one. With hunger twisting my insides, my decision is made. I dash over, push the door open, and walk into a cloud of heat and spice. It's pretty full already, but nobody takes much notice of me, so I head to the bar. Again, habit.

The waiter uncorks a bottle of red wine, and then takes my to-go order. "It'll be about ten minutes. Can I get you something to drink?"

 _Yes._ "No. I'm good, thanks." The draught tap has condensation dripping down it. The sight draws all the moisture from my mouth. "On second thought, a club soda."

I'm so full of amazing ideas, I astound myself. Em tells me I'm a masochist. He's usually right. I turn my back on the devil, facing the restaurant.

It's then that I see her. Brunette, curves poured into a red silk dress covered with dragons breathing fire. It's burning in her cheeks as she rushes around the tables. I'm not the only pair of eyes following her around the room.

She's fucking beautiful. A little harassed and tired as she catches me looking and raises a brow. She's not familiar. I would've remembered those eyes. Dark and dangerous.

A stray hand belonging to a sweaty, fat fuck in a suit brushes against her ass. She laughs and slaps it away, but she flashes me a look of disgust as if I'm a friend. It makes me want to punch his lights out. I just smile.

She heads over to the bar, the tray balanced on her hip. "Assholes," she says under her breath to me. "Can't ever get away from them." She stands on her tiptoes, stretching her body over the bar as she reaches for some shot glasses. When they're filled with Patron, the smell of her perfume mixed with the liquor is enough to drive any man crazy. She turns to me. "Someone lookin' after you?"

"Yeah, thanks." I gesture to the waiter. "I've ordered takeout."

She scans me like a book, tilting her head the opposite way to her smile as she takes in my damp hoodie and hair. "That's a shame."

Her invitation settles in my nerve endings, and I see the night in front of me, the way I want it to play out, what it'll take to have her body underneath me, the sounds I'll pull from her, the way she'll taste. It'll be easy.

I watch her for a little while longer before I recognize the signs. My heart rate, the focus, the craving. She's just another type of nectar. The others … they're watered-down, but this … she's too much. She hits me like a slap.

I walk out of the restaurant, my food forgotten, with a matchbook crushed in my hand. _The Red Lantern._

* * *

 _AN: Hello again! I'm a little nervous to post this story as it's very different for me. I hope you'll enjoy x_

 _Kim, this story wouldn't exist without you._

 _Choc, you always show me the way.._

 _Cat, catches my Britishisms like a pro._

 _Time Lights made me the most beautiful banner, link on my profile._

 _I lucky to have you all._

 _Also, love to TLS who featured me in their Sneak Peek this week._

 _Couple more things ... Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. I'll aim to post on a Sunday (maybe sooner!)_

 _Think that's about it! See you soon._

 _Sparrow x_


	2. Chapter 2

**(Two)**

I let Em choose where to meet. Of course, he suggests the coffee shop on Blake. I should say something, but I don't. It's a game I like to play. Hang around the edges of the fire, trying not to get burned. I'm shit at it, and the scars aren't pretty.

He's waiting for me at a table hidden away in the corner so we can talk freely. That's a game _he_ plays. Remove all of Edward's excuses to avoid dealing with his issues. Unfortunately, he's gotten pretty good at it.

"So how've you been?" He's got his sponsor hat on today. Actually, it's an Orioles' Snapback, but you know what I mean.

"Good," I say, gulping at the black coffee he knows I hate—another tactic to make talking unavoidable. I put it down and push it away.

"Really? Or _good_ because explaining anything else is too much like hard work?" He narrows his eyes at me. It's going to be one of those conversations.

I pull out the universal signal for 'no clue how to answer that' and shrug.

Em sits back and folds his arms, cocking his head. "You gotta give me more than that." You can't bullshit a bullshitter.

I sigh and rub a hand down my face. "It's been okay. You know how it is. Some days are harder than others, but overall I'm good. Busy at work, pulled a few lates."

"Snowed under with obituaries, huh?"

"Fuck you, Em," I say, his words digging into old wounds. My fall from grace was not limited to my personal life.

"You shouldn't be working like that, E. It's not healthy. You'll run yourself into the ground. We talked about routine and using it to help you when things get tough, but working all hours isn't what I meant." He's all serious again, his magnifying glass burning a hole through me. "You need hobbies, too. A way to burn off steam." My mind goes straight to the thought of _Red Lantern_ sprawled across my bed. "Are you still sparring down at Jasper's place?"

"Not at the moment," I say, flexing my hand in reaction. My knuckles are still swollen. The dull pain chases her from my mind and back to fuck up number 1,256 on the road to recovery. Byline—the night my sister had had enough.

"You spoken to Ally?"

"Nope," I say, and he frowns again.

"You even try?"

"Yeah. I tried, but what can I do? She doesn't want to talk to me."

"Are you surprised?" Em is all about the low blows today.

The bell rings above the door, stealing my attention. It's not who I'm looking for, but it gives me a chance to change the subject. "How're things with you?"

He's not falling for it and digs into me again. I eye the clock above the wall, the tick of the second hand, giving him five minutes before I'll suggest a break.

Times up and we've gotten nowhere. I'm not playing ball."You want a smoke?"

He's as predictable as the days of the week. A pause while he worries what his wife will say. Another when he remembers she's left him and doesn't give a fuck. A fraction of a second when the pain is visible on his face. I hate that part. I count my luck I didn't fuck up a wife. Lose a kid. I screwed up way before that stage of my life. "Yeah. Might as well," he says.

We lean up against the bricks. It's not raining, but it's cold enough to puff our own smoke before we even light up.

"When will we be back?" I nod to the building across from us, its insides piled up in a dumpster out front.

"A couple of weeks or so. You want me to pick you up next week, make sure you get there okay?" He struggles to light up with the flimsy match I offer him. _Route 55._ Stale beer, old jukebox, a black eye. "Why the hell do you use these? Get a lighter, Jesus."

I laugh and accept his offer of a lift. Sometimes my conscience butts in to make sure I sort my shit out. We chat for a while about this and that. Nothing serious. I catch every movement on the street. A car pulling out the lot. Not her. A mom pushing a stroller. Not her. A cat trying to catch its dinner. Definately not her. If Em notices I'm distracted, he doesn't say anything.

When we turn to go back in for round two, I see the restaurant's not even open. I'm disappointed with relief.

On the bus home, I pull out my phone and call Ally again. Get her voicemail _again_. More relief. I don't think I could handle that conversation right now, not when my mind's full of nothing but bad news.

It's a shitty time to try and get home—we're locked in the middle of rush hour. I've been staring at the same crawling cars and depressed faces for half an hour. I'm thinking I should've walked, when I'm rewarded for my laziness. Through the filthy windows, I catch a glance of a brunette walking back to where we've crawled from.

I can't be sure it's her, but it's enough to test my limits. The bus pulls up to the curb, doors whoosh open, and I have to switch off—flatline so I don't do something stupid.

Think of the devil and she shall appear.

Who am I fucking kidding?

I'm Beelzebub.

* * *

 **AN: Thank you so much for all the reviews, follows and favourites. Your response has been amazing. See you soon.**

 **Kim, Choc and Cat make this pretty for me. I heart them.**

 **Sparrow xx**


	3. Chapter 3

**(Three)**

St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes, hangs around my mother's neck. She's pacing the kitchen, rubbing the small charm and complaining about her fuck-up of a son. That's me, by the way, in case you thought she might have another one.

"I spoke to Father Thomas, and I think you should come to mass with me on Sunday. You haven't been to church in so long, since your dad's …" she mouths the word _funeral_ as if saying it will summon his ghost, "and it's … well, it's embarrassing. Marjorie Reeves is always asking about your recovery." She air quotes "recovery" as if it's a joke. "She loves to rub my nose in it. Awful woman." Ruining her social life is the biggest travesty of this whole mess. That, and killing my own my father.

"I can't make it this week. Or next." Or ever.

She purses her lips like she's stepped in a pile of shit. "That's a shame, Edward. A damn shame."

When she wants to get across how disappointed she is with me, she repeats phrases my father would have used, and lowers her voice. It's comical, really, but I try not to laugh. The main reason for my visit is to find out what Ally has been up to, not to give her more ammo to shoot me with. "Sorry, Mom. Maybe another time."

She huffs and turns her attention back to the bread she was kneading before I turned up. She punches and slaps the hell out of the dough. I kinda feel sorry for it, getting beat up over me. "Have you seen Ally recently?"

"Yes. She takes time out of her busy life to come and see me." An uppercut to my jaw. I don't bother to explain the obvious, that I _am_ here.

"Is she back in town this weekend?"

"Yes. She's coming over for dinner on Saturday with Jasper."

"Right," I say, waiting for the invite. It doesn't come.

I decide to get the hell out of dodge with at least some of my good mood intact. "I'd better get going." I lean down and kiss her cheek; she stops what she's doing and kisses the air around my right ear. "Take care of yourself."

She's always said that to me. At first it was affection. Now, she's talking as if I'm a stranger she'll probably never see again. I guess that's my fault.

* * *

The hall is already packed, and all there is to drink is coffee. I grab a cup, anyway, needing to do something with my hands. Smoking is not an option.

Maggie, an old-timer, holds out a plate of cookies. They make up for the shitty coffee. "Hey, stranger. What happened to you last week?"

"I couldn't make it," I lie. I'm not sure why, but I don't want her to know I messed up.

"Well, it's good to have you back." Her hands shake as she sets the plate back on the table. She catches me staring. "I offered to talk tonight. I don't know why, because I hate it. I've done it so many times, but it doesn't get any easier. You were meant to be talking last week, right?"

"Yeah."

She reaches up and picks lint off my shoulder, fussing. "Next time you do it, if it makes it any easier, just talk to me. Or Emmett. Ignore the rest of them."

"Right." I don't make promises.

"Good." She pats her hands on my chest. "Good."

I won't willingly talk to many people here, but Maggie's the exception. She reminds me of a bird. Round eyes, skin and bones inside baggy clothes, and a habit of taking newbies under her wing. She has a son, somewhere. She doesn't know where. Maybe some grandkids, too. She's never seen them. A crying shame, because she'd be the best kind of grandparent. When she's sober, at least.

Marcus, the group leader, joins us and puts his arm around Maggie, his hand on her other shoulder. He ignores me, then calls everyone to sit, reminding us of the rules. I hate this patronizing fucker most of all.

I switch off until Maggie stands up.

"Hello. I'm Maggie. You all know this, and you all know I'm _still_ an alcoholic. No matter what I do, I can never escape that label. It's a fucking tattoo."

When the laughter dies down, she tells her stories. I always think I've heard the worst, but every time she's at that lectern, she gives us another snapshot into hell. Usually worse than the last. She doesn't make it pretty. In this one, she's beaten and bruised. Used for dollar bills by dirty fucks getting their rocks off. Used so she can buy food for her family. She's lived a trainwreck but can't get off the tracks.

"So you see, I rewrote some of my labels, or hid them where no one can see. But it didn't happen overnight, and it wasn't … _isn't_ easy, because some of them have been there for a long time, and others … well, like I said … fucking tattoos."

The ridiculous thing is she seeks me out afterward to make sure _I'm_ okay. I feel like a fraud as she sits on the steps beside me and we share a smoke. She asks me about my work, my friends, asks if there're any girls on the horizon, giving me that knowing smile I've never received from my own mom.

"Not right now," I say, enjoying these characters we play.

"I'm sure she's out there for you."

I can't say what I want to, that I've got a warning attached, so I just laugh.

She struggles to stand, so I give her a hand. "See you next week."

I say my goodbyes to Em, trading lies about where we're both going. He's going to sit outside his ex-wife's house, hoping she'll come out and speak to him—a Thursday night ritual he let slip. My Thursday nights have the potential to become a ritual, too. We're as fucked up as each other.

I sit back down, waiting for the last person to leave. Marcus locks the door and skirts around me. "Goodnight, Edward. I hope you found that helpful."

I have to knock this on the head before he thinks I'm open to talking. "As helpful as a bottle of Jack." I pull out my phone, dismissing any other attempts he might have. He hovers for a moment and sighs, leaving me alone.

It's colder tonight; without the rain, I can see clearly into the restaurant. Flashes of red as the other girls wait tables. But no flashes of her.

If I cared enough, I might feel like a dick, hanging around for a glimpse of her, but I stopped caring about things a long time ago. At least that's what people expect. I might as well deliver.

The bar is busy enough that I could slip in and no one would notice. I know exactly what I need to pull myself together, and it isn't cigarettes or soda. I look away, working out the number of days, hours, minutes since my last drink. The calculations keep my mind occupied for the few seconds it would take to ruin my life again.

A car door slams into my conscious, drawing my attention to the parking lot across the street. A black Tahoe idles restlessly, exhaust smoke wrapping its hands around the darkness. The driver is pissed, his fists clenched, his actions louder than the words I can't make out. I'm about to stand when I hear a female voice telling him to calm down.

All thoughts of leaving vanish. It's _her_ , and she's just as pissed. She shoves against his chest, eyes wild, but he catches her wrists and holds her back. My blood roars. I'm relieved he's got enough sense not to strike back, because I'm not ready to be discovered yet. I've got enough shit going on without adding manslaughter to the list.

Whatever he says, it seems to calm her down, their voices almost disappearing. It dawns on me that this could be a boyfriend. Confirmed when he pushes her up against the car and bends down to kiss her. Everything shifts and spins, rearranging how I thought this would pan out. The ending never changes, though.

I don't know why I keep watching. It's fucked up, but I've never been good at making the right choices. I tell myself if they start fucking, I'll go. I'm saved from that decision when she pushes his hand out from her dress and escapes from underneath him. He tries to grab her back, but she skips out of his reach. He doesn't see her wiping him from her face as she heads into the restaurant.

It should be easy to get her out of my system after that, but she's still here like a bad hangover. The effects of watching him paw at her are here, too. I can't ignore them, so I call into _Duke's_ on my way home: sticky floors, 24/7 sports, and a fiery redhead who doesn't ask questions.

* * *

 _AN: Thank you so much for reading and to those reviewing. I love hearing from you._

 _Kim, Choc and Cat are my diamonds._

 _See you soon._

 _Sparrow xx_


	4. Chapter 4

**(Four)**

It's raining and I want to smoke without ruining my interior; car, not lungs—they're already fucked. So, I jump out and light up on Ally's porch.

I give them two hours before they're home. Ally might act like the perfect daughter, but her tolerance with Mom has its limits, same as me.

Our family dinners always start with small talk; then the condescension and criticism get served up, right before the final course of disappointment. And if you get to coffee—you might as well put a bullet through your skull. No wonder I can't stand the stuff.

I hate that Ally's so pissed with me, but the fact she's not holding back, not treating me like I could implode at the slightest thing, is refreshing. Or it would be if she wasn't so pissed. I wouldn't care if most people in my life stopped talking to me, but Ally is different. She knows me better than anyone—probably better than myself. I shouldn't have punched Jasper.

I shouldn't have done a lot of stuff.

I'm freezing sitting out here—there's an arctic blast according to CNN. I know where Ally keeps the spare key, but she'll freak out if I let myself in. So, I wait.

They last two and a half hours. I'm impressed. They take forever to get out of the car, though, which shaves a few minutes off my admiration. My fingers are numb by the time she walks past me and slams the door in my face.

Jasper shrugs, and I notice his hair has been buzzed clean off.

"When do you leave?"

"Monday." He's eyeing me as if he can't decide whether or not to punch me.

I can hear Ally banging around inside, making sure I know she's mad as hell. "Where to?"

"Kandahar."

"Shit," I say and wish I'd known. "Is Al okay?

"You should ask her that yourself," he says, and I really fucking hope he's going to invite me inside so I can, but he doesn't move an inch.

"Look, I'm sorry—"

"I shouldn't have said what I did," he interrupts, and I want to agree, but I bite my tongue. "You've gotta stop fucking around, Ed. Ally needs you. She needs someone to rely on, so you gotta pull yourself together."

"I'm working on it."

"Well, try harder." His expression is grim, and I should feel bad, but he's starting to piss me off again. It's not that I don't like him, it's just that he can be a real dick—which, in my eyes, is most of the time. Jasper's a "snap-out-of-it" person. He doesn't get that it's not that easy. I wish it were.

"Can you ask her to come out and talk to me?" I ask, before I say something worse.

He sighs and shakes his head. "I can ask her, but she might not want to. She's kinda emotional at the moment as it is. So take it easy, okay? If she wants you to go, just do us all a favor and leave."

"I just want a minute."

"I'll see what I can do." He leaves me standing in the dark.

I wait for a minute, then five, then ten. She doesn't come out. And I don't knock.

I really fucked it up this time.

I hadn't meant to scare her—sometimes I lose my shit, and I don't think.

I didn't know she'd been trawling the streets, bars, clubs, hospitals, the river.

I didn't know she was terrified she'd lost me for good.

I didn't know she was pregnant.

Jasper told me after I'd punched him. After he said I was going to kill her, just like I'd killed my father. After I'd disappeared for three days like the selfish prick I've always been.

You'd think being sober would have cleared up my asshole traits, but it seems they're here to stay.

Shame, because people used to say I was a good guy. Once upon a time.

* * *

I drive back into the city. Having my car and nowhere to be, I take the long way home. It leads me past the one place it shouldn't. The one place I can't seem to stay away from. It pushes my limits every time I see her, like one of those twisted games Ally used to play with her friends when we were kids.

Truth: You should go home.

Dare: You should go into the restaurant.

Truth: You don't know anything about her.

Dare: Talk to her.

Truth: You need to stop coming here.

Dare: Take her home with you.

Truth: She will ruin you.

Dare: Let her.

* * *

 _AN: Thank you to everyone reading and reviewing. Kim, Choc, and Cat keep me sane. Love them all and you guys._

 _Sparrow xx_


	5. Chapter 5

**(Five)**

Mike calls me into his office. I expect the worst when he tells me to sit. Last time he dragged me in here, I lost my job. Apparently, I'm still causing him problems.

"What hours are you supposed to work, Cullen?"

I try to work out if it's a trick question, but he gets impatient and answers for me. "Nine to five. That's all. I'm not paying you to work through the night. I'm also not paying you to crash and burn."

"I'm paying for that already, aren't I?" I say, thinking of the pile of obituaries outstanding on my desk.

He smooths his hand down his tie and sucks his stomach in, leaning back in his chair. "If you want to look at it like that, then yes, you're doing your time. But no more and no less."

A prison metaphor—how apt. "It's not about money," I say—my finances are the least of my worries. Being a recluse pretty much earns for itself. It's the free time I don't want.

"No, it's about your health. I only have to take one look at you to know you're not sleeping." A call comes in and he answers, muffling the receiver with his shoulder so he can finish the lecture. "You need to take care of yourself. No one else will. Don't push it, Edward."

I push the chair back and salute him as I leave.

* * *

My life is split into two—before the event, and after. No one knows what the event is, not even me. There might have been several—more than several. They might have been nothing. Or maybe something was there all along—a tiny crack waiting to blow wide open. I don't have the energy to work it out. Everything I have, I put into not drowning myself in liquor. Apart from the small part I'm dedicating to _her._

I used to be a war correspondent. Now I write obituaries. Mike thought it would help, seeing what people have achieved with their lives. That, and he couldn't trust I wouldn't get myself killed in a warzone. He doesn't understand I'm my own battlefield.

I used to live my dream, but I passed out and woke up in a nightmare.

I used to be drunk, now I'm sober.

I used to be _alive_.

* * *

I should have stopped the first time. Or the fourth, fifth, sixth. I should have let the glimpse I got into her life be enough, but that's always been my way. It only takes a little taste.

The signs are all too easy to mistake for other things: excitement, nerves, and often lust. But I've done this too many times to be mistaken. She's filling my mind up, giving me excuses. I sit here waiting to catch sight of her every Thursday night, pulling together all the little details I've gathered about her, the things I've witnessed, wondering who she is. There's the boyfriend, who hasn't been back around since the last time I saw him. There's the way she walks: slowly, as if she's in no rush to do anything. Her wicked and sometimes false laughter, especially when she jokes with her boss. _He_ acts like he owns her, too. I see the way she edges away from him—he still doesn't get the message. She always arrives alone and gets off the 345 bus. I imagine she lives north of the city, not far from me. But I don't care about any of this. I can't.

Tonight's meeting was rough. I'm sick of coming to this building. I listened to another sad fuck cry over his addiction, my patience wearing thin—a toothpick ready to bite in two. Emmett wasn't around. He's gone to Tulsa for a week. God knows what's taken him to that shithole. He said it was business; we've all got a lot of business to attend to, only it's hardly ever at a desk.

The night is clear, and if I squint hard enough, I can see the shadows of the stars. It's no match for the sky over Helmand Valley. I haven't thought about that for a long time. I try not to. But you feel like you can see a whole world out there. It reminds me of what I've lost, reminds me why I'm trying so hard to move on. It reminds me exactly why I shouldn't be here.

I don't even allow myself one last glance as I head to the bus stop.

It's only when I wrench my attention from my boots that I realize _she's_ left early, too. The figure on the sidewalk is unmistakable. I can hear her on the phone, arguing. Her voice is hoarse with anger and tears. I look up and catch her eyes. They're black holes. Two open wounds. She drops her head and passes by. My heart is hammering—I've been caught.

Her body is hunched into itself as she carries on walking, and then, with an abrupt yell, she comes to a stop and throws her phone into the street. It shatters on impact. A group of men walking on the other side of the road whoop and holler at her. Their laughter instantly pisses me off; her, too, as she flips them the bird and yells at them to fuck off.

I know I need to diffuse whatever situation she's ignited, so I start off after her. I warn the men with a look over my shoulder, and the fuckers seem to read me right, carrying on in the opposite direction. But when I turn the corner, she's gone. The only thing in sight is the Meridian bridge, illuminated by the sparse streetlights. I hope she's had enough sense to hail a cab, go home. Which is what I should be doing. So I take a shortcut over the bridge to the next bus stop. The wind is sharp; I turn up the collar of my jacket, shove my hands in my pockets. The roads are quiet, the bridge blocked off for maintenance.

I usually don't look down into the water; heights are another of my weaknesses. But something forces my attention. It's then that I see she hasn't caught a bus or a cab. She isn't planning on going home at all, because she's standing on the bridge's edge, leaning into the wind. She lets go with one hand, and my heart leaps to my throat.

She's not laughing in exhilaration. Her face is still, tears falling a hundred feet below. I approach her slowly, not wanting to startle her.

"Having a bad night, huh?"

She wobbles, and it's an electric shock to my system. I pounce forward, but she rights herself in time and swings around to grab on to the metalwork. "What the hell? You can't scare people like that."

"Sorry. I'm not sure how you're supposed to approach someone who's about to jump off a bridge." I shrug, trying to act calm even though my pulse is out of control. Gusts of wind whip her hair around her face, her skirt tangled in her legs.

"I'm not jumping," she replies, but she turns back to the water, her spine pressed against the struts as she begins to let go again.

"What are you doing, then?" I ask, raking my mind for anything to help me. I'm sure I saw on TV that the best thing to do is keep them talking, but then maybe that was a hostage negotiation. "Checking out the scenery?"

She laughs through the tears pouring down her cheeks. She's going to kill me. "No. The scenery here is terrible."

"So, what then?" I ask, edging closer, trying to work out the best place to grab her if she jumps.

"I wanted to see if I could fly." She lets go, and stands a little straighter. My stomach does another dive.

"Oh, right. I've done that before," I say, moving slowly.

"You have?" She turns and wobbles again. Her carelessness is making me sweat. "How'd that go for you?"

She's beautiful in her unravelling, and something about her like this, so _lost_ , pulls the truth from me. "I'm still counting the injuries." I pause, trying to coax her. "You should get down from there. You don't want to do that."

She looks at me like she wants me to talk her out of it, but then her face hardens. "You don't know the first thing about me."

 _Not true_.

"Tell me something, then," I prompt.

Another laugh breaks through her tears, this one drowning in unhappiness. "Just leave me alone."

I shrug off my jacket, and snap my neck, like I'm preparing for a fight. And I am, just not the one I'm used to. "I can't do that," I say, swinging a leg over the railing until I'm balancing at her side. "What's that famous saying? 'You jump, I jump', right?"

She shakes her head, her eyes reflecting every bit of surprise and sadness welling up inside of her. "You're crazy."

"No crazier than you."

"Is that supposed to make it better?"

I grip the bars behind me, my shirt snapping against my chest. "I hate to break it to you, but we're both suspended hundreds of feet above water. I don't think anything's making this situation better."

She frowns, and I take an instinctive step to the side, disturbing her balance. "Don't come any closer!" she shrieks into the night.

I hold out a hand. "Hey, it's fine. I'm not going to touch you. We're just talking."

Her eyes squeeze shut, shutting me out or locking herself in, I can't tell.

"What's your name?" she asks after a moment. I can barely hear her, the wind grappling her words and launching them past my shoulder.

I hesitate to give it to her, but I have to barter something. "Edward."

"You ever save anybody before, Edward?"

"No, first time," I answer, trying not to look down. "How am I doing?"

She stares right ahead, right into her problems. "You could be worse."

I think back to empty nights and empty bottles and empty skies. Vomit-tracked alleyways and broken ribs. Girls in dirty bathrooms, girls on their knees. The silence of a funeral. The exit from my own life.

"Yeah, I could be worse," I echo.

My words are barely out, when her shoe slips, her balance disappearing. I react faster than I've ever had to before. I grab her skirt, yanking her backward until my arm is firmly around her waist. She cries out as her leg catches on the hard edge of the railings. She wrestles against my strength, but I want her more than she doesn't want herself.

Adrenaline surges through my body, knocking me to the floor. We're a tangled heap until I roll her off me. I don't let her go as she sobs, as she wildly lashes out at me. "Get off me! I don't want to do this!"

I can't help but wonder what it is she doesn't want to do. I hope the answer is _die_. Slowly, she begins to calm down. I hold her tighter, her muscles relaxing as she sucks in breath after breath. Then she shudders, grabbing on to my shirt, her whole body vibrating with emotion as she buries her face in my neck. Relief or regret, it could be either.

It's only when I can catch my breath that I realize what I've done. Where I am with this girl in my arms. I should let go, walk away, but I don't.

When she finally looks up at me, her face swollen and eyes full of a life I saved, I can't help but wonder if it would have been safer for us both to let her fall.

* * *

 _AN: Thank you so much to those of you reading and reviewing. I love to see in your heads._

 _All the love to Kim for this chapter. She made it shine. To Choc and Cat for their help too._

 _TLS featured ACOY in their What we're reading and Nursery fic posts this week. So all the kisses to them (kimmy, my Penn, especially)._

 _Have a good week._

 _Sparrow x_


	6. Chapter 6

**(Six)**

My dad used to joke I was all or nothing. One hundred miles an hour to a dead stop. One hundred times a day. He doesn't joke much anymore. He can't. There's nothing funny about a heart attack.

It started with swimming in sixth grade. I couldn't just compete, win a couple of meets, enjoy it. I had to be the best. I lived at the pool: early mornings, late nights. Every single day, the thrill of racing, the recognition.

Then came high school and football. I never stepped in a pool again. My life was filled with training, games, girls, parties. I was on a high from freshman to senior year.

Then another challenge came along, a degree in Journalism at UW. It uncovered my craving to write. I dropped the ball and didn't pick it up again. I secured my dream job at the Times, then Fox, then CNN. Chasing success, I won awards here and there and landed myself on the other side of the world. My fearlessness and talent in portraying real-life nightmares skyrocketed me straight into hell. And I'm still there.

I was too daring, too reckless, and then too stupid to care.

So the alcohol crept in. The drugs. The women. The alcohol. _The alcohol._

And, I gave into it. I gave up my life.

Now there's _her._

But I have nothing to give. And she has everything to lose.

* * *

The face in the mirror isn't me. At least not who I want to be. I plunge my hands into the sink and splash the icy water against my skin. The sharp shock has no effect. I look sick. I feel it in my bones. My eyes are sunken—a week's worth of stubble can't hide the shadows on my face—and my hair is fucked.

I'd thought I was untouchable, but addiction has its hands all over me.

I lean over and turn on the shower, pulling my T-shirt over my head as someone begins banging on my front door. There's no way in hell I'm up for conversation, so I shed the rest of my clothes and step under the spray. I make it hot enough to scald—it's the only way to get some life back into me.

The banging is still echoing through my apartment once I'm done. Its rhythm switches from irritating to infuriating and back again, letting me know exactly who it is. I grab a towel and rub it over my hair, wrapping it around my waist. Then, when I've made him wait long enough, I let the impatient bastard in. The cold air from outside pelts my skin as I rip open the door.

"It's 7 a.m., Em—," I say, and when he smiles slowly, I add—"on my day off."

He pushes past me, falling onto the couch and thumping his boots up on the coffee table. "Go and get dressed."

"Why?" I have plans today. Plans to think about what the hell I'm going to do about the situation I've gotten myself into.

"Are you busy?" he asks, biting into a leftover slice of pizza from last night, or maybe the night before. My place is a mess.

"Yes."

"Bullshit. Get dressed. We're going to be late."

I don't move an inch.

He turns and raises his index finger, using the others to count out. "One, you need to get out. Two, you need to get out. Three, you owe me."

"How's that?" I ask, pushing my luck.

"Seriously? Do you want me to go through the list? We'll be here all day. And why haven't you been at work?"

I start to create a lie, but he's not fishing for information—he knows. "I needed a break."

"From what?"

"Jesus, can you get off my back."

"No, E. I can't. I'm not sure if you know how this sponsor thing works, but when you're struggling, you're meant to call me. Not disappear until I track you down and drag it out of you." He's not a bad sponsor. He's just never had to deal with someone like me.

"I'm fine." The universal lie I tell to anyone who cares. I tell it to myself regularly.

"Really?" he deadpans, eyeing the bomb site he's sitting in. There are too many clues to ignore. The empty takeout boxes, the open window to the fire escape—he'll know there's a right lung's worth of cigarette butts littering the road below. The drawn blinds, unmade bed. CNN on loop. You get the picture.

"Yes. Don't ask me again, Em. I hate repeating myself." He's too good at getting under my skin, and it makes me uncomfortable.

"Don't be an asshole," he warns.

"Ditto." I'm not ready to share what's happened. To share _her_. So I give in to him and go get dressed.

It's only when we get off at Greek Street that I realize where we're going. I pull up short. "Not a good idea, Em."

He ignores me and keeps walking, disappearing into Whitlock's Gym.

I hover for a minute, waiting for him to reappear—he doesn't. I curse under my breath and push open the doors.

Em is leaning up against the ropes, talking to Riley. The ring is empty, a pair of gloves discarded on its floor.

"Edward." Riley greets me warily. He's a mirror image of Jasper without the sandpaper personality. "You up for throwing a few punches _in_ the ring today?"

I have a vivid image of him wrenching my arms behind my back, blood dripping from Jasper's nose onto the concrete floor. "Depends who I get to hit," I say, looking at Em.

"No chance." Em shakes his head and nods to Riley. "You got time to burn today?"

"For E? Always." He grins and pulls himself up and over the ropes. "You ready?" He throws the gloves at me and I reluctantly unlace them, preferring bare knuckles. Not allowed. Here, at least.

I can already feel the pent up energy heavy in my muscles, triggered by the familiar smells of old sweat and leather. The slap of gloves against pads, feet moving against the flooring.

I kick off my sneakers, pull off my T-shirt, and leap up and over, landing on the springy floor. I pull on the gloves, flexing my neck, my wrists, my back, calves, and the soles of my feet. My body feels stiff, heavy until I start to move.

"You gonna give me your worst?" Riley's blue eyes dart in all directions, trying to read my tactics.

"You couldn't handle it, Ry." I fake left, and he twists out of my way—I land a jab on his chest.

"We'll see, shall we?" He ducks and goes for my stomach. I dodge, and the blow glances off my ribs. The ache of old injuries is easy to ignore as I catch him across the cheek with my right.

His grin disappears, replaced by determination. I might be out of practice, but I haven't forgotten a thing. I match his expression and go in for the kill.

We fight until my body's drenched, my muscles burning. I don't care that I'll be fucked up come tomorrow. I ride the rush for hours afterward. It makes me feel invincible. And that's the danger of addiction, why Em drags me to get pizza, stays with me until the adrenaline burns up. Because anything is possible till then. Anything at all.

* * *

I have time for one last cigarette before the meeting, so I sit on the steps at the side entrance, obscuring my view of the restaurant in an attempt to focus on something else. Thunder is rolling off the Sound. It slices open a memory of Mom telling Alice she shouldn't be afraid, that God was moving his furniture. And maybe he is. Maybe he's making room for me. I smile bitterly at the thought.

I spot Maggie making her way into the building, but I don't see _her_ until it's too late.

"Hey," she says, pausing in front of me.

I look up, stuck on her bare legs. She's wearing a short oriental dress and an oversized coat. A _man's_ coat. I blink a couple of times in case the hallucinations have come back, but she's still here.

Hailing her a cab instead of taking her home that night was my one good deed. I planned to fade back into the shadows, but now she's here. In my blank space.

"You remember me, right?" She rocks back on her heels, tightens the coat around her.

"Yeah, I remember you," I say slowly, and let smoke twist up and obscure her face.

She licks her lips, finds her words. "I saw you from across the street and I just … I wanted to say … I thought it would be good if we could talk." Her speech rushes out all in the same breath. I'm making her nervous. "I wanted to say thank you."

Her hair is twisted up today, the wildness gone from her eyes. She could be a different person. Only my body reacts the same as always.

"Don't thank me," I say, and it sounds harsher than I mean it to. After all, I'm a walking, talking revolver—I never run out of bullets.

She instinctively takes a step back, then two forward. I have to look away, her proximity too much.

"Why not?" She smashes her lips into a thin line, reacting to the wall I'm building.

I shrug, running out of bricks. "Because."

"You can't answer with _because_."

"Why?"

"Because we're not in fifth grade."

I toss the remainder of my cigarette off to the side, watching the cherry explode on the sidewalk. Kind of like this conversation.

People are beginning to arrive for the meeting. They pass us without a word—no acknowledgement. That's the way this thing works around outsiders.

"You're acting different."

"So are you." Or maybe she isn't. Standing this close to me could count as suicide.

I see Em behind her. His eyes shoot over us, assessing the situation. He frowns—good reaction.

I nod over at him, drawing her attention away from me. "I've gotta go."

She scans the scene, piecing it together. It's not a secret why people meet here. We just like to pretend it is.

"Oh. Right."

I stand up and tower over her. "I'll see you."

"Wait." She grabs on to my arm, that wild look back again. Only this time, doubt has created a small crease at the top of her nose. "If you change your mind, I work across the street, at The Red Lantern. Just ask for—"

She opens her mouth, the first letter of her name balancing on the edge of her tongue. I break one of my rules, pressing my hand to her lips—trapping her name. "There's a reason it's anonymous," I say.

I feel her lips part, ready to question me, but I don't hang around for her answer. I turn and head into the building.

What would I say?

I don't want to know.

I don't want you.

I don't want.

A name isn't something you carry with you, like a dollar, a photo in your wallet, your sobriety. It's not an object you can lose or get rid of. It's a living, breathing memory—a permanent scar. And I've already got enough to last me a lifetime.

* * *

 _AN: Thanks a million to all of you reading and reviewing. Kim, Choc and Cat make this pretty for me and leave me the best comments._

 _See you soon. Sparrow x_


	7. Chapter 7

**(Seven)**

I'm a ghost haunting my old life: the offices of the Seattle Times, my family, my apartment, _myself_.

I should let go of whatever's keeping me here, but instead of moving on, I'm standing outside Swedish Medical—a place I haunted at my worst.

Cracked ribs, a broken jaw, blood poisoning, overdoses—I'm a familiar apparition in the ER.

Even so, Ally's face turns white the second she sees me.

"What are you doing here?" Her eyes dart around to see who's in earshot. She lowers her voice. "You can't be here, Edward."

"I want to talk to you." I shrug, and she silences the pager on her hip, tucks her hair under her scrub cap.

"I don't have time for this. I've gotta go." She spins on her heel, but I reach out and grab her wrist as gently as possible. The last thing I need is the attention of the wanna-be-cop security guard. We're old friends.

"Ally, just give me one minute." I can see in her eyes that I'm tearing her in two: the sister she was, and the sister who's trying to pretend she doesn't have a brother.

"I can't. You can't be here, E. You should go home." She tugs her hand away and disappears through a set of swinging doors. Frustration and something that might be sadness, spreads under my skin, threatening to swallow me whole. I stalk out of the waiting area and into the restroom.

I turn the faucet on full and rest my hands on the edge of the sink, watching the water disappear down the drain. I feel twelve years old, pissed as if Ally's hogging the remote and won't let me take back control of the game.

I face the stranger in the mirror again. He looks like hell. _Again_. He smirks, and I wipe it right off his face with my fist. The mirror shatters, slicing into my knuckles. The water turns red. It makes me feel better—the pain, not seeing myself anymore. I know Ally will be annoyed, but maybe she'll talk to me now. I wait until the worst of the blood gushes out of the cuts, then I walk back and take a seat.

It takes a while. I lose track, wishing I'd had a smoke. Blood has dripped and congealed on the blue linoleum. It's caked on my hand, my jeans. People are looking when they think I'm not. I wonder what they see? A fucked up mess. A trouble maker. A ghost.

When she finally reappears to call in the next patient, her eyes flick over me, resting on the bloody mess of my hand. Her anger is forgotten for a second, and she rushes over, the concern in her face pulling at the hollow in my chest, the place where my heart used to be.

"Oh my god, what the hell happened?" She inspects the damage and looks at me closely for the first time in a long while. "Did you do this?"

"No." It's a half truth—at least, only one half of me is lying. "It was an accident."

"You'll need stitches. Wait here." She heads over to reception, and shuffles through the paperwork. Finding nothing, she speaks to the girl behind the desk, gesturing over to me as she talks. The blonde peeks over the computer—her eyes linger a second too long, a moment that could end up with discarded clothes and rumpled bedsheets. Or more likely, burns on her back from rough alley bricks.

My thoughts hit a dead end—Red Lantern blocks their way. It's a change I don't have time to register as Ally returns.

"Come with me." She doesn't wait, marching through the double doors and whipping back the curtain of an empty bay. "Sit." She points at the gurney and then turns her back on me, preparing to deal with my superficial wounds.

She isn't as gentle as I know she can be. Her lips are trapped between her teeth as she works. I think she enjoys making me hiss in pain, so much so, that she does it again when the wounds look clean enough to me. "Stop moving," she orders, preparing to stick my skin back together. To mend the cracks. The ones within her abilities as a nurse.

With her concentration on her job, I take the chance to get her to talk. "You okay?"

"Yep," she says, ripping open a package of gauze and avoiding my eyes. She looks well, _happy_ , with the exception of the frown on her forehead. It's a permanent crease when I'm around.

"You heard from Jasper?" I wince when she presses hard with the cotton swab.

"Yes, he called last night. He's out on an operation now, so …" She trails off, and tension lifts her shoulders with the words she doesn't say.

"He'll be back soon."

"Oh yeah?" She turns her back on me again, taking her emotions out on a roll of tape, slapping it down on the metal tray when she can't find the end. When she turns back around, she locks me in her sights. Tears balance in her brown eyes. "Does that mean you'll be back soon, too?"

"Ally …" I should reach out to her, but I don't. I can't be the one to make the tears fall. She's done enough crying for me. I say the words even though I know she doesn't want to hear them, even though they're another lie. "I'm here."

"Yeah," she says, finishing up. She's softer now, pausing to trace a scar across the palm of my hand. "I remember this."

I nod, smiling despite myself.

"I told you not to climb that high." She passes her finger over it again then steps back, gripping her elbows to stop herself from doing something as careless as hugging me.

"I never did listen to you."

She swipes at a tear that's too heavy to hold back. "I wish you would."

"I know." I can't give her anything else. But I remember each any every time she begged me to get help, when she cried and yelled, whispered and coaxed me to stop. I remember her face every time I turned away—hurt, anger, disappointment, pain, grief. Now, she won't give me anything. She's a blank sheet of paper.

She starts tidying everything away; the intercom is calling doctors every five seconds. It's giving me a headache.

"Is everything okay with the baby?"

She places her hands on the small bump hidden under her scrubs; a tiny smile flickers on her face before it goes out. "Yes." It's all she gives me.

"I want to be there for you … both." I know it's the right thing to say, but panic scrambles after my words to take them back. I wouldn't let me anywhere near a kid. I'm the worst kind of person. The worst kind of role model. The worst kind of influence. _Here, kids, if you really want to fuck your life up, take a look at Exhibit A_ : _Edward Cullen._

My omission shifts some of the ice, and she's my little sister again, if only for a second. "I want you to be there, too." But then she steps back and pulls the glacier back around her. "But not like this."

She doesn't let me fight, she just walks away. I wouldn't have had anything else to say, anyway, because she's right. She's always right.

I walk out the double doors, and light up a smoke. Ruby Tuesday. Weak cocktails, suave assholes, and dark corners. I feel its pull—hands and lips, heavy breaths and quick hits—but I let it go. It disappears, replaced by another pair of hands, short sharp bursts of humid breath against my neck, the weight of her body, the look in her eyes. I recognize the way she looked at me. If I saved her once, maybe I could do it again. Maybe I should try to save myself. We could keep each other alive. Our own version of a fucked up love story.

It's probably the worst idea I've ever had.

* * *

I sit in an empty pew, the mass at St. James over. Candles flicker and incense burns, but it's not my mother's church. I'm not sure why I came. I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't even want to talk to myself.

My soul can't be healed. My sins can't be repented. It's too late for that. Perhaps I'm hoping I'll be struck down for daring to enter, but that hasn't happened yet, either. He's biding his time for me— _death_. The _devil_. He gives me these moments of peace. It's a trick.

I wonder if He sent me _her_. The devil was an angel with a death wish, after all. My mind wanders to her more than it should. I've started to let it.

I'm giving her the red flags. She doesn't realize what she's dealing with. She doesn't know the power she could wield over me. If she did, and she was fucked up like me, we'd both be ruined.

The last few church goers leave. They offer me smiles or glances. I drop my head. I'm tired today. My bones feel heavy. Before, I would float them in liquor. Powder them with coke. I can't do that anymore, so I sink.

It's times like this I take out the guilt I carry with me. I hold it in my hands. I turn it over and over. I try to find flaws, ways to make it smaller, but it never changes.

My mother insisted on an open casket. She made sure he wore his best suit, most expensive watch, silk tie. She spent hours choosing flowers that choked me with their scents. We stood beside him, before and after the service, while people gave condolences.

I wanted to vomit the whole time. I wanted to shred the flowers and slam the coffin shut. I wanted to murder my mother. The priest. The endless buzzing of sympathy. Instead, I forced a smile, made small talk, and tried my hardest not to look at my dad.

But even then, I could see the scar and the staples that held his body together. Imagine the heart stuffed into his chest, broken and unfixable. Sliced and diced in an attempt to slow the damage. Damage I'd done to him. Damage I can't mend.

I press my hand to my own chest. My heart beats loudly as if someone's turned up the bass in their car outside. It's intrusive. I want it to stop.

* * *

 _AN: I think we might need a group hug with Edward in the middle._

 _Love to you all for reading and reviewing._

 _Heaps to Kim, Choc and Cat too._

 _Sparrow xx_


	8. Chapter 8

**(Eight)**

I've been sober for 293 days.

42 visits to AA.

84 rides on the 345.

84 opportunities missed.

85 is my lucky number.

As I stare out the window, wishing the bus would hurry the fuck up, she steps on for the first time. My count winds back to zero. I suck a deep breath in as if it'll make me invisible. It doesn't work. I'm the first person she sees.

Her face registers her surprise before she buries it under a layer of indifference. The bus lurches forward forcing her to take a step closer, but her instincts must kick in; the warning gun sounds, and she spins and takes a seat at the front.

Her back is ramrod straight. Her posture too tight. Her hair is fixed up with a pen. I wonder if she knows it's there. I wonder what she's been doing today, before this journey, for her whole life.

I try to ignore her, knowing the next stop isn't far—even if it will leave me miles from where I need to be. But then we get stuck in a jam. Every second is a breath using up my common sense. She dips her head, looking at something in her hand, probably her phone.

A flicker of a siren through the rainy window draws my attention. It draws hers, too. The red flashing lights become invisible when she catches me looking. I half wonder if the paramedics are on their way to resuscitate me.

I should stay put, but she's too close. The temptation is too strong. And I'm having a bad day. It's all too easy as I stand and walk to the seat in front of her. Her eyes are wide as I sit down, twisting to face her.

She looks around as if this is a joke, or maybe to see if someone might save her. There's no one. Not even my conscience. The artificial lights of the bus turn her yellow as she tries to pretend I'm not there, but she can't hold her curiosity back for long. She juts out her jaw, suspicion narrowing her brown eyes. "What do you want?"

"Why the 345?"

Her face goes slack, her mask slipping in confusion. "What?"

I rest my arm on the back of the seat, tap my finger against the metalwork of the bus. "Why are you on this bus?"

She scrunches her face and leans into the aisle, looking at the traffic up ahead before sitting back. The movement disturbs her perfume; it snaps me back to our brush with death on the Meridian Bridge.

Trapped by the rush hour traffic, she surrenders to her fate and gestures along the aisle. "Sorry, I thought this was a public service?"

I remain quiet, waiting. She's predictable. Her words can't stay unsaid for long.

"Why do you care anyway?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because."

I raise a brow at her and tilt my head, reeling her back to our last conversation. "Because?"

She crosses her arms angrily. The puff of air that leaves her mouth makes me smile. My smile makes her blush. Whiskey heat runs down my veins.

"Because it was the quickest way to get to work. Seriously, why are you even talking to me?"

"Because I want to." The bus starts up again, its shuddering engine sending acrid smoke through the cracked window.

She reflects my sarcastic expression, but nerves still edge into her features. "What's so different to last week?"

I shrug. "Nothing." _I'm weaker. I'm braver. I'm careless._

She looks directly into my eyes as if she's trying to find a better answer. She'll only see her reflection. It's a stare off I win, which is a mistake, because when she turns to look out the window, I want her back.

"You know, it's wrong that I don't know your name."

"What if I don't want to give it to you?"

"You do." I get the result I wanted. Her eyes are all over me again.

"Maybe, but I don't think you really want to know me." She's wrong and right.

This time it's she who holds all the answers—I just have to work out the question. The bus pulls up to the curb, and she stands with a look that tells me I've run out of time. But something changes her mind, and she hovers when the doors burst open, letting the cold night in with a hiss. "You coming?"

I've always been competitive, so without a thought to my other goals, I follow her into the night.

We walk side by side without talking. Both of us are probably thinking of reasons we shouldn't be here. Boyfriend. Addiction. Self-preservation. It's only when we turn onto a quieter street that she turns to me. "You're going to Blake, right?"

"Yeah. Every Thursday." I dodge a few puddles and the cracks, too. I don't need any more bad luck.

"Oh … of course." She drops back into silence. Addiction isn't the easiest topic for small talk, if that's what we're doing here. I'm not entirely sure.

"Are you heading to work?" Our politeness is fucking ridiculous.

Her laughter echoes around the empty street, making it hollow. "Always." She stops short and spins around, a smile transforming her face. "Unless you've got a better offer?"

A thousand possibilities surge through my mind. I stamp them out before they set alight. "Not sure AA is your thing, but you can come if you want."

She cocks her head to the side, in her way. "You can do that? Bring strangers in?"

"Maybe, if it was a friends and family session."

She frowns at the disconnect. Explaining my family dynamics would be the worst buzzkill, so I dodge that, too. "They wouldn't know you were a stranger." Emmett would, but this is hypothetical, I think.

"Sounds fun."

"About as fun as a funeral." The one and only time I allowed my family to attend was a huge mistake. It won't happen again. See, sometimes I do learn my lesson.

"Maybe another day, then. I've had enough of those for a while."

I want to dig out everything she isn't saying, but I hate having my own wounds probed, so I give her the same courtesy. I file away her response as an explanation as to why she might have climbed up on that bridge. One of them, at least.

To distract us both, I pull out my smokes. "You want one?"

She waves the pack away. "I'm good. I'm trying to give up on things that are bad for me."

 _Aren't we all_. I don't like to point out balancing hundreds of feet above water isn't exactly considered healthy.

She stamps her feet, trying to keep warm as I light up. The tall buildings lining the street create a wind tunnel, and I struggle to keep the match burning. "Here." She stands on her tiptoes and cups her hands around the flame. For a second, I'm frozen in place by her proximity, by the fire dancing in her eyes. I make the mistake of looking a second too long and see the way she reacts to me. Her body leaning closer, her eyes darting to the cigarette hanging from my lips.

The flame burns my fingers. I curse and drop the match to the ground, snapping back to reality. I turn my back to the wind, to her, and light up.

She's still not done with her questions when we start walking again. Doesn't she know curiosity killed the cat? "How long have you been going to the meetings?"

"How long have I been sober?" I rephrase for her.

"Well, yeah, I guess." She looks down the sidewalk while I work it out. Or at least, while I pretend to. It's not something you forget. It's an ever-changing tattoo carved into my chest.

"Around eight months." 293 days. The final slice of the new number is almost complete. Only 5 hours of torment left to go. _As if the next day will be any better_.

"That's pretty good," she says, offering me a different kind of smile, as if she's not really sure what constitutes success. I don't try and explain the Twelve Steps because I don't want to see that smile again. The one soured with pity.

An intersection up ahead is the distraction I need. Cars race by in a flash of lights, and exhaust fumes puff into the night. The noise drowns out any more opportunities to talk until we're over the other side and on Blake.

I try to find a way to explain how eight months feels like a second and a century, depending on my mood. I can't, so the silence goes on too long. It makes me want to know what she's thinking. I tell myself I don't give a shit. She's nobody to me.

She pauses outside the windows of The Red Lantern, which is already busy inside. It makes me think of her red dress. Standing here wrapped up in a winter coat and jeans, she's a hint of a possibility. In that dress, she's a bottle of Jack with the lid off.

I'm tearing at the seams. "I better go." I jerk my chin over at the hall, the open door spilling light onto the steps.

She shifts as if she's going to touch me, but she puts her hands in her pockets instead. "I hope it goes okay."

"Thanks. Have fun." I have to laugh at the face she pulls. The offer of something better sits on the edge of my tongue, but I knock it back.

She pushes the staff door open, letting the buzz of the kitchen into the street. Then she tosses me a grenade. "It's Bella, by the way."

I should throw it back or run for cover, but I catch it and pull the pin. "See you around, Bella."

* * *

 _AN: A millions kisses for you all._

 _Kim, Choc & Cat make this pretty for me. Heart eyes._

 _See you soon_

 _Sparrow xx_


	9. Chapter 9

**(Nine)**

There was a time I didn't have seconds to spare. Now, my calendar is almost empty. Days are spent welding words together without caring how they look. Nights are wasted staring at the ceiling.

Apart from Thursdays—it's the only day worth registering.

Bella doesn't bother with formalities the next time she sees me. She climbs on the bus and sits at my side. "Hey. How're things?"

Her sudden presence is too much to fit neatly beside me. I can't take her all in, so I suggest getting off at the next stop, even though it's drizzling.

She's laughing a lot tonight and skips over puddles as if she has wings. She's a different woman to the one from the bridge. I wonder whether I'll ever meet her again, or if she hides her other sides as well I as do.

Another sleepless night drags my feet, but she doesn't say anything. She doesn't ask questions when we sit on a wall outside a derelict building, sheltered under an overhanging roof. She waits while I light up a smoke, her eyebrows drawn together. It's then I can tell she wants ask me everything.

She starts with the easiest. "So you come here every week?"

"I should, yeah." Cars drive past and throw water across the sidewalks, making them shine under the street lamps.

"You don't always?" She's fishing. I like the feel of the hook as it catches, tugging little bits of information out of me.

"I try, but I don't always make it. Emmett busts my balls if I don't, so it depends if I want to take that risk."

"Was that the guy giving us a look that night? The tall one?" She raises her hand, guessing his height as far as she can reach.

It pulls a smile from me. "Yeah, that's him."

"He didn't like you talking to me." She's more astute than I thought.

"Nah, it's not you." I don't know where I'd begin to explain Em's concerns. I pull in a chest full of smoke; my lungs are tight, and it makes me cough. I should give up. But _should_ never got me anywhere.

She's watching me again, working me over in her mind, trying to piece me together. I have too many missing parts for that.

She holds a hand out and catches a small stream of water rushing through a tear in the canopy above our heads. It fills her palm and overflows to the floor. We're not going to be walking anywhere soon. "What's his problem?"

"Em's my sponsor." I shrug, flicking the butt onto the slick asphalt where it fizzes out. "He likes to look out for me."

"Does he think I'm bad for you?" Her smile flickers in her eyes, flirty and teasing, and I'm reminded how capable she is of ruining me.

"Something like that," I say.

Her laugh is dirty; it catches against my ribs, chases my pulse. It makes me want her so badly.

I change the subject before I do something I'll regret. "What about you?"

"What about me?" Her eyes are bright even in this dreary night. I should tell her looking at me like that, like I'm shiny and new, is a bad idea. _Should_ … as I said.

"Why are you here?"

She's puzzled. I'm not sure what I want from her, either, only that it gives me an excuse to watch her for a minute longer while she thinks.

A couple walk by arm in arm, their faces hidden under an umbrella as they talk about whatever it is happy couples do. I wouldn't know. My relationships are on a scale of bad to worse. My fault. Always.

She chooses to offer me a snapshot. It's black-and-white and blurry, but I take it. "The restaurant is my second job. I work on the other side of the city during the day, switch sides at night … and you're the first person to look at me like that for a long time."

Her answer turns me inside out for a split second, until I remind myself she doesn't know anything about me. "Like what?"

She doesn't respond, she just looks—right at me. The rain and traffic is background noise, and I understand what she means. The need for her. The want. I just have to try to remember the difference.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, drawing my attention from her lips. Em's number lights up, the time displayed at the top of the screen.

"Shit, I'm late." I see her disappointment bursting out of our bubble, though she hides it well. I need to get out of here before I do something stupid. "We're gonna get soaked." I squint into the downpour.

She laughs again and pulls her hood up. "Nothing wrong with a little rain." She takes my hand and tugs. "Come on."

I should let go, but as she drags me down the street, squealing and laughing under the thunder of the rain, I know I won't be able to shake her off easily.

* * *

The group is already seated when I get there. Marcus is in his place at the front, but I don't apologize for interrupting. I take my seat next to Em, whose eyes are almost falling out of their sockets with irritated curiosity. I mouth an apology to him—he deserves it, at least. Maybe it'll cut down the inquisition I'll get later.

I should listen to the people talking; it's important to them, and who am I to disrespect that? But it's hard to concentrate when I'm full of Bella. She's hammering through my veins like she belongs there. I wonder what kept me alive before her? Stupid question to ask in my present location.

I'm trying to quantify how bad she could really be when I realize all eyes are turned to me. Marcus can't hide his impatience as he repeats himself. "Edward, I wondered if you'd like to talk today?"

Fuck. If I'd been concentrating I could've thought up an excuse, but I'm all out of time. "Sure," I say as I stand. Em claps me on the back, jarring my bones.

I hate public speaking. I deal in silent words people can collect and reflect on in their own time. I hate the way this crowd looks at me, as if I'm about say something that will change their lives or make them feel better about themselves. I hold on to the lectern, to give myself something focus on. "Hey, I'm Edward, and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hello, Edward," the room cheerily answers by habit.

The pressure of a nervous laugh builds in my windpipe. I swallow it back down.

I have a whole pack of experiences I could choose from, a variety of hands, but I always stick to the bottom of the deck. No one's ever seen my trump cards. I keep those close to my chest, next to the empty chambers of my heart where my valves pump borrowed time. I don't know what I'm saving them for. Maybe they'll come in handy one day, when I need to barter my way out of hell. The fleeting thought brings a stab of reality with it. It sobers my thoughts enough to speak. I pick Maggie out of the crowd; she gives me an imperceptible nod of her head, a quirk of a smile. I slide a low number from my pack.

"I caught up with some friends last month. An old friend I hadn't seen for years. One who's used to seeing me beer in hand, out in a bar, buying the next round, and the one after." That gets a few grunts, a common trait. "He was introducing me to his new wife. They'd cooked dinner, and the wine was already poured." I pause and get the respective nods of a few heads who can already tell where my story is going.

"I was going to lie to him … to accept the drink." I shrug and drop my eyes to the lectern, acting out the role of a good confession. "I would have, too, but then he asked me about my parents, so I had to tell them the truth."

No one knows what I mean by that, but I'm not going to explain. They don't need the details to see the trigger. Em's helped lift my finger off it more times than I can count. I flash him a look, and he repeats Maggie's gesture of encouragement.

The pause gives Marcus the gap to butt in. "And how did that make you feel, Edward?"

He says my name like it's a curse, punctuates it with a crocodile smile. It makes me want to break his jaw. I breathe through my nose and hear a few people shift in their chairs. I'm not the only one who dislikes him. He acts as if his experience makes him the Dalai Lama. It doesn't, it just makes him a dick.

I don't know why I do it, but I think of Bella. The way she teased me in the rain, the sound of her laugh. It relaxes my knuckles, releases the pressure of my fingers against the wood.

"It made me feel like shit," I say, and the group laughs, half of them with relief at the release of tension in the room. "But then I was glad they knew. He's always been pretty laid back, so they didn't make a fuss. They didn't hide all the alcohol and do three Hail Marys, they just listened. So, I guess what I'm saying is, it's good to talk." I hate myself sometimes.

I sit back down through a trickle of _thank yous_ and _well dones_. I know what I say should be true, but it doesn't mean I believe it or it works. My secrets are shackles, and part of me thinks I should feel their weight even if they drag me under. It's the least I deserve.

Em seeks me out at the end as I knew he would. "Running late tonight, E. Something keeping you?"

I offer him my Marlboros—he's not pretending he doesn't smoke anymore. The rain has let up, but it's clouded the windows along the street. I can't even see flashes of red that could be _her_. "Nah, the bus was running late."

"Hmm," is his reply. He leans back against the wall, crosses his legs at the ankle. "You did good tonight."

"I hate doing that."

"I know, but it's important."

"That's what you keep telling me." I rake my hands through my hair and tear my eyes away from the restaurant.

"You'll get there, E. It takes time." He blows rings and pops them with his finger like he's sixteen years old.

"You spoke to Rose recently?" I ask while he's distracted, trying to lessen the sting of her name. It doesn't work. His face falls and then twists into a scowl.

He kicks a bottle top, sending it skittering across the ground. "No ... she's seeing someone else."

"Shit, man, I'm sorry." The news makes my stomach drop, so his must have plummeted into a black hole.

"Yeah, well. What can I do?"

"Kill him," I joke.

He laughs and shakes his head. "Don't give me any more bad ideas."

"More?"

"You don't wanna know." He stands and pulls his phone out of his jeans, the screen lighting up his face.

But I do want to know in case I have to alibi him for some stupid shit, so when he pats his stomach and asks if I want to grab a bite, I agree.

The bad idea I had to hang around for Bella has to wait to take shape. For now, at least.

* * *

AN: Thank you for reading and reviewing. You're diamond.

Kim, Choc and Cat sort me out on a daily (sometimes hourly) basis!

A couple of brilliant stories I'm reading (links in my profile):

 **The Fall by Miss Winkles -** She's got a bulletproof heart but he's got a hollow point smile. He's a gathering storm. A spark in the darkness. A bruised heart just waiting to happen. At rock bottom, Bella Swan has nowhere to fall but everything to lose.

 **Come Undone by Gemmah -** I know everything about Isabella Marie Swan - the girl is an open book - but what she knows about me could be scrawled on a flyleaf, large and untidy, and still have blank space below it. I flip back and forth between happiness at her lack of awareness guilt that she's so much in the dark. She never pushes, never questions. I guess I know she's afraid to ask.

See you next week.

Sparrow xx


	10. Chapter 10

**(Ten)**

I roll up to the corner of 32nd and Hove and leave the engine idling. She suggested to meet here instead of her place. Said it would be easier for me to find. Or easier for her to hide whatever it is that exists down these back alleys crammed with shadows and neon-bright pawn shops promising dollars for gold.

I flash the headlights when Bella appears. She waves to tell me she'll be two minutes, then crouches down to talk to what at first looks like a pile of trash. When I look closer, I realize it's a homeless guy with a black dog curled against his side. They exchange a few words, and she hands him what I guess is money before she crosses the road to me, sending a smile over her shoulder to him.

I lean over to open the door. She slides in, gives me a smile. Only it's different. Less familiar. Nervous. "Thanks for doing this."

"No problem. I was over this side of town." I'm full of it today.

"You like to drive?"

"Yeah."

"How come you take the bus, then?" With a click of her seatbelt, she twists all her attention to me.

"The traffic kills my engine. The bus makes more sense." I don't tell her the real reason. That I'm less inclined to go off track if I have no way to get home afterward.

I glance at the homeless man again before I pull back into the traffic. His eyes are fixed on me. They're more than curious; they're protective.

"Do you know him?" I ask, switching on the radio. Music blasts into the car, making her jump. I turn it down to background noise.

"Yes and no," she says, the worst possible way to answer a question.

"So, maybe?"

She starts to rummage through her bag, finding whatever it is she uses to put her hair up. The smell of her shampoo takes over the usual smell of leather and faded air freshener. "He used to work in insurance. Never touched drink or drugs." She catches what she's said and looks guilty, but I shake my head for her to continue. "What I mean is, he's just trying to survive the bad hand he's been dealt."

I swallow the irony. It scrapes my throat. "He's had a rough ride, then."

"You could say that. I always stop to say hi and give him what I can. You know all of us are only a dose of bad luck away from living on the streets. I'd like to think someone might help me if I was in that situation." She shrugs and goes back to staring out of the windshield.

"Somebody would," I say.

She glances over, reads between my lines, and smiles.

We drive in a comfortable silence for as long as she can manage, which isn't long at all.

"Can I find something to listen to?" She's touching the dials before I answer.

"Sure. What do you like?"

She chews on her lips, scanning the stations. "Everything. Depends what mood I'm in. What about you?"

"Same."

She listens to a few seconds of a song and then flips to the next. Again and again. It's a trait Ally used to drive me insane with. Same as flicking through the TV channels until my eyes hurt.

"How do you know if you like it or not if you don't listen to the whole thing," I say, pushing her hand to the side, taking control. "You have to hear it all the way through, then you can decide if you like it or not." I find an old rock song, one that doesn't take me back to black holes spent in The Roadhouse. "Listen to this."

She looks at me in shock, and then laughs.

"What?" I scowl.

"That's the most I've ever heard you speak." Her eyes are all over me again. I stare at the traffic. My fingers itch for a smoke, so I tap out the beat of the song on the steering wheel instead. "I like it," she adds, trying to melt my mood.

I only smile when she turns away.

The car's like a sauna as we crawl through traffic. Bella peels off her coat, unwraps her scarf. She's flushed from the heat. It's all I can do not to put my hands all over her when she leans over into the backseat, dumping her extra layers. I crack the window to give me a chance to breathe something other than her.

"So, what've you been up to this week?" She plays with the zipper on her boot, the air vents, her hair. She never stops moving. It could be nerves or just that she's full of life. I'm stone in comparison.

"Not much. Working, mainly."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a journalist." A little white lie in present tense.

"Really? That's amazing."

The masochist in me likes to ramp up people's expectations so their disappointment falls that much further. "I was before I fucked it up. Now, I write obituaries."

She doesn't miss a beat. "That's still an important job. When my dad died, he only got a few sentences, and they spelled his name wrong. I mean, how hard could that be? He wasn't an astronaut or an inventor, but he deserved more than that, you know?"

I wince inside. My attention to detail has been lacking. I can barely find it in me to listen while I talk to relatives, never mind sympathize with them. I'm a selfish fuck.

"What about before? What kind of journalist were you? If you don't mind me asking?"

"Not at all," I lie again. "I was a war reporter for CNN."

"Wow, Edward. That is… that's hardcore." Her fingers pinch the material of my hoodie, tugging like she can't believe it. "It must have been amazing, getting to travel all over the world ... but then the things you must have seen. The things you had to write about."

A horror movie plays through my head. I close my eyes to the images and the road. When I open them, they're still there, playing on loop. "Yeah, it had its moments." My voice is uncertain of itself.

She lets go of my hoodie, but her hand hovers, as if she's going to touch me somewhere else. Something changes her mind, and she tucks her hand under her thigh. "It's a brave job."

I shake my head. "Not really." She might be right, but I can't hear those words now. Not without thinking how I've thrown it all away and how that makes me the worst coward of all.

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"You said you have another job."

"Oh, yeah." She pushes my question aside with a non-committal sigh. "I work downtown in an office. It's boring. Trying to make ends meet." She starts spinning a silver ring on her thumb. "Will you be able to do your old job again, when you're …" She struggles to find the word. Better. Sober. Alive.

"Maybe."

I lie to her about the time of the meeting this week. I can't risk her asking me any more questions because I'll have to stop them, and the only way I can think of to do that is to kiss her, and the thought of kissing her escalates into the backseat before I can stop it. I think she knows I'm bullshitting, as she's a little less bright as she crosses the street. Em arrives twenty minutes later and accepts my reasons for driving, other things on his mind. I can't get Bella out of mine.

* * *

We've run out of places to go before we have to be where we have to be. Bars are the obvious choice—no can do. Coffee shops—neither of us like the stuff or the people who haunt them. We're a different kind of ghost.

"When was the last time you went on a swing?" she says, walking over to a lonely set of four. The park is deserted. Everything is grey and shadowed, the few street lights around the edges barely making a dent in the dark. And when I say everything, I mean Bella, too. She's as colorless as the playground.

She holds the chains and leans back, letting herself go. Her hair flies behind her. I keep my boots on the ground and ask her if she's okay.

She doesn't look at me, pushing off gently so her feet barely brush the ground. "Yeah."

For someone who usually has twenty words to my two, she must have a build up of a thousand unsaid. "You sure?"

"I'm just a little tired," she says, not speaking again.

I shove my hands deep into my pockets, my shoulders hunched against the chill. "Do you have to work tonight?" I ask, thinking she should go back to her bed and trying not to think how she could come back to mine.

"Yeah, I do. Jimmy's already given me a warning about being late. Not turning up would be even worse."

"Shit. That's my fault."

"That's what I tried to tell him." I see a shadow of her usual smile.

We borrow time either side of our meetings. I'm having to take Em's shit and leave jobs half finished at work. I hadn't thought what she was giving up in exchange for those extra few hours. "I'll talk to him if he's giving you shit."

"I can look after myself, Edward." She's abrupt, but then adds, "But thanks for the offer."

She's the kind of girl who talks a lot but doesn't tell you anything. I'm biding my time. Her secrets aren't hidden deep; she's just an expert at avoidance.

"Aren't you freezing?" She flips the subject, eyeing my leather jacket, the thin T-shirt underneath.

"I don't feel the cold," I say, though my feet and fingers are numb.

She shivers under all her layers. "You've gotta be cold-blooded then, like a lizard or something."

"Maybe I'm dead."

She stops the swing with a scrape of her feet and watches me for a second. Then her decision is made. She comes to stand in front of me. Her mouth is tucked into her scarf, but her eyes are full of intention. She steps between my knees, her body heat blocking off the icy night. I need to back away, but I can't, and that's all the excuse I need to let her closer.

Bella lifts her hand and places her fingers under my jaw, presses them into my neck. I feel my pulse thumping against her skin, faster than it should. I start to pull my hands from my pockets, torn between pulling her closer or pushing her away, when she speaks. "You _are_ alive."

A balloon pops in my chest when I realize what she's doing. She doesn't drop her hand, it stays there, warm and firm. I find her wrist under the edge of her glove, her pulse racing.

"You're alive, Edward," she repeats.

Thump. Thump Thump. Thump. Thump Thump. The rhythms fit inside each other.

"So are you," I say.

* * *

The next week, she doesn't make the bus. She doesn't call.

The meeting is a blur. I've already decided to check if she's at work. If she's not, I don't know what I'll do.

Em collars me outside—I have to wait for him to leave before I can make my way over. Lies and excuses cloud my mind as I try to pick the right one. He asks me for a smoke, adding at least another five minutes to our chat. I'm antsy, but he doesn't clock it. He's in the middle of telling me about Rosalie's asshole boyfriend when a familiar car pulls up to the curb.

Bella's _boyfriend_ —or whoever the fuck he is—jumps out of the Tahoe and dives into the restaurant.

Minutes feel like hours before he finally comes back out, Bella behind him. I can hear his voice over the sounds of the cars. Em's attention is drawn, too. He sees the way my fists clench, the flicker in my jaw.

"Edward," he warns, placing a hand on my arm.

It stops me for a split second, holds my feet when they want to race over to her. Bella yells back at him, throwing her words into the night, but their meaning is lost in the wind. He grabs on to her and yanks her toward the car. She resists. Whatever he says next, quiet and close to her face, drains her fight. Satisfied, he opens the door then walks around to his side of the car. I hear the next part. "Get the fuck in, now." I wrench my arm away from Em before Tahoe finishes the sentence. I'm up and over the wall in a second, but I'm not quick enough. He's already in the car, the engine running as I cross the road, anger charging my veins. Bella spots me. Her face is frozen in some sort of horror. She shakes her head in warning, and slides into the car. Its wheels burn rubber against the asphalt, squealing away before I can get a hand on its metalwork. I watch it weave into the traffic, horns blaring at the careless driving. My heart hammers with unresolved rage. I'm going to kill him.

I pull out my phone and try to call her, but hers is turned off. Em clamps a hand on my shoulder, pushing me onto the sidewalk. "What the fuck was that about, E?"

He watches the traffic with me and scrubs his hand across his hair, worry lining his face. "Is she the reason you've been late?"

I shake my head, trying her phone again. Still no answer.

"Fuck." I punch my curse out with a fist. Em grabs me again.

"I think you need to calm down, and then I think we need to have a little talk."

I don't know what else to do, so I drop my head and nod.

I tell Em everything. He's pissed and concerned. He tells me I shouldn't see her again.

I don't lie. I tell him I have to.

He warns me. I don't listen.

It's only when the rest of the city is fast asleep that I get a text from her. "I'm okay."

Now who's the liar?

The next week, she doesn't make it to work at all.

* * *

 _AN: Thank you so much to every singe one of you. You keep me going._

 _Kim, Choc and Cat work their magic to get this into shape. They're my right hands._

 _I'm away for the next two weeks, so I won't be able to update - cries - but as soon as I'm back we'll get back on schedule._

 _Another wonderful story for you all in my profile:_

 **The Monster** **by Thimbles:** We are Generation Z. We are educated and engaged. We have the whole world at our fingertips. Our biggest killer? Ourselves.

 _See you in two weeks._

 _Sparrow x_


	11. Chapter 11

**(Eleven** **)**

I should let it go.

Forget she ever existed.

But that would be like trying to forget the taste of Jack and Coke.

I give her another week. It's painful, and the days merge as the clock drags. I work overtime. Tyler tells me to go home. I go to the gym instead. Riley tells me he's got to lock up. I walk the streets, pass the restaurant. I call her, but she never answers. I leave a couple of voicemails, then her phone gets disconnected on Tuesday.

Maybe she doesn't want anything to do with me, but something doesn't sit right. I don't know why or how to pinpoint it, but it's there, and I can't walk away until I know she's okay. I'm too wrapped up in the way she makes me feel to pretend any different.

Em told me to forget about her and get on with my life. I asked him how that was going for him. We haven't spoken since.

I push open the door to The Red Lantern, and tell myself to ignore the drinks behind the bar—I'm chasing a different kind of high tonight.

A curly-haired blonde balances a tray of bottles in one hand, like it weighs nothing. She gives me a once-over when I ask if Bella's here.

"Who's asking?"

"A friend."

"Bella doesn't have any friends," she says, and it's not with malice, only bare facts.

"I haven't seen her for a while." I shouldn't let myself care. But fuck it. I do. "I'm worried about her."

She lifts the tray up to her shoulder. "Well, I'm glad someone is." She sweeps her eyes over me again. "She doesn't work here anymore. She quit last week."

"She quit?"

"That's what I said." She turns and deposits the bottles to a table of rowdy businessmen. I wait for her to get back, and she takes her time, testing my resolve. She has no idea how far I will go.

When she returns, she looks annoyed I'm still here. She barely glances over but fires a question at me as she pours out glasses of wine. "Are you friends with Sam?"

"Who's Sam?"

She doesn't warrant my question with an answer, but she relaxes a bit. I immediately tag the name to Tahoe.

"How do you know each other?"

"We hang out sometimes."

"You got her number?"

"I did, but it's disconnected."

"Shit." Her response only adds weight to my concern.

She presses her lips together and then puts down the tray, pulling a napkin from the bar. She hands it to me with a pen. "Write your number on there. I'll let you know if I hear from her."

"Tell her Edward was looking for her."

"Will do."

I stand outside and light up a smoke. My fingers itch to call her number again. Another dead end.

It takes three more days to hear from the blonde, and all I get is an address.

* * *

The door to the apartment building is wide open. The hallway is littered with leaves and junk mail and an old bike propped up against the wall. I search the mail boxes for a name to confirm I'm in the right place, and for a second, I can't see anything that fits. Then I spot the name I'm looking for. S. Uley. Sam. Tahoe.

I should think this through. When I was drinking, I lived in the moment, had no consequences. I tell myself I know better, but I can't shake the old ways. They've become part of my nature. Reckless. Thoughtless. Impulsive. They're the unstable cells in my body.

I take the stairs two at a time.

505 has peeling paint and a busted door handle. Confidence that she's here is instantly replaced by concern. I knock once, and the door creaks opens, the flicker of a TV visible in the darkness.

I call out Bella's name and knock again, giving her five seconds before I let myself in.

I'm already over the threshold when she answers, her voice rusty. "I'll be there in a second."

I take a step back into the hallway. A jagged piece of wood has been ripped from the door, black marks further down could have been made by a boot. I don't like where my thoughts take me.

When she appears, her hair's a mess. I take in the oversized T-shirt touching her knees, the socks protecting her feet from the tiled floor. She looks soft—warm and sleep-creased. As tempting as it is to imagine my hands all over her, I focus on the fact she was in bed at 6:30 p.m. on a Saturday and what this means.

Her hands fly up to her chest when she sees me."Edward. What are you … how did you?" She wraps her arms around herself, tries to cover up her state of undress.

"Your friend at the restaurant gave me your address."

A door slams in one of the apartments below us, and the sound chases her confusion away with fear. "Did anyone see you coming here?"

Footsteps grow quieter as whoever it is heads down the stairs. "No. Why would it matter if they did?"

She reaches out and grabs on to me, pulling me through the door. With a last glance into the stairwell, she shuts the door, dragging a box behind it.

"What happened to your door?"

"Nothing … it's not important," she adds when she sees my expression. "Can I get you anything to drink?" She stumbles on the last word like most people do when addressing an alcoholic.

"No, I'm good. What happened to your door?" I ask again, a dog with a bone. I reach out and twist the lock back and forth. It just spins, latching onto air where the catch should be. "This isn't safe. Anyone could walk in."

"Like you?"

"Exactly like me."

She looks away and walks farther into the apartment. It's a mirror image of mine. Unmade bed, clothes everywhere, no light, TV on low, window open to the loud street below. The only difference is hers smells a hell of a lot better.

"I'm guessing Blondie didn't mention I was looking for you."

"Who?"

"The waitress at the Red Lantern?"

"Jessie? No." She perches on the edge of the bed, draws her knees up, wraps her arms around them. "I haven't spoken to her in weeks."

"She made it sound like I should be worried about you."

She chews on her lips. "I'm fine." A lie. She pauses like she can't decide what to say or do with me, so I take the decision away for her.

"I wasn't planning on staying."

"Right. Well …" She shrugs, and plays with her socks, pulling them up over her knees. A second later, she rests her cheek on them and looks at me. Really looks at me. And I let her. I want her to see me. See inside me. See through me.

"Why did you come?" This girl could dodge raindrops in a storm.

"Why did you quit your job?"

"I didn't."

"Fired?"

"Something like that."

"And the door?" I ask again. I need the answer to give me a substantial reason to get her out of this place. To give substance to my other reasoning. I need her near me. I want her.

"It's nothing. Like I said."

I lean against the wall and cross my arms. "Bullshit." Her cheeks heat, and I have to ignore the vision that flares in my mind involving her and the unmade bed behind her.

She unwraps herself and stands up, running her fingers through her hair with a sigh. "You don't need to worry about me. I'm fine. I'll be fine."

"I'm not worried."

She doesn't believe me, and I'm not sure I do either.

She walks over and holds out her hand. "You got a smoke?"

I hand her the packet, and she shakes two out, trapping one in her lips and reaching up to put the other between mine. I search her face for something and nothing. Insomnia, or one of his friends, has left cruel bruises on her skin. I have another vision then, one I crush immediately before it can escape. Of us lying side by side, filling empty hours, exchanging stories and ourselves. A bad idea. A very bad idea.

Bella heads over to the balcony and turns the key, giving the door a final sharp kick to open it. "He'll really kill me if he knows I've been smoking in here."

We both pretend we didn't hear it—her accidental slip. I let her think she can fool me for a little longer and follow her out. People don't say things they don't mean, even if they think they do.

Part of me would welcome him coming home. To find me here and have to deal with someone big enough to fight back. I flicker with excitement at the thought of my fist and his face.

I lean on the balcony edge, and watch the trails of lights below. Bella shivers and blows smoke into the sky. I shrug off my jacket and hand it over even though she shakes her head.

"Put it on," I urge.

"You'll be cold."

"I think I can handle it."

She throws it around her shoulders, burying herself into the warm leather. "I've been thinking about you, you know?"

I don't know what to say, so I try her tactic, watching lights flick on and off in the apartment block opposite. I change the subject. "Have you found another job yet?"

"No. But I've been looking. I'll land something soon."

She's lying through her enthusiasm, numbers circled in red pen that will never get called, opportunities not followed up. I've been here. I know the signs.

"You okay for money?" I expect a fight or flight response, but she just chokes out a dark laugh.

"Money, money, money." She laughs again, making me look over. She's as expressionless as the bricks behind her. "It makes the world go around. Except I want to get off."

I go back to watching traffic. I can't push her for the answers to the questions in my mind. I feel like we're balancing on the edge of this balcony. I don't want to lean too far.

Her eyes are on me again. She's waiting for the inevitable concern, the probing. When it doesn't come, she continues like I knew she would.

"I borrowed a lot of money from Sam." She stubs her smoke out on the brickwork then reaches up and hides it in the guttering. Her T-shirt rises enough to draw my eye. "I can't pay it back, so I'm here and there and wherever else he wants me, doing whatever he wants me to."

I think of them by his car. His hands all over her. "What does he want you to do?"

I've hit the trigger and she shoots back at me. "Nothing like that. I won't do that." She folds her arms across her chest.

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't need to."

The sound of a siren draws closer, flashing lights in the distance. She waits until it's passed, her fingers tracing a crack across the wall until she comes to its end. It leaves her nothing else to do but talk to me.

"We met at school. God, that seems so long ago now." She smiles and it's softened by the thought of her past. It doesn't stay for long. "A lot of stuff has happened since and Sam was there. He's always been there." She shrugs like this is reason enough for him to be there now. From where I'm stood, it's not . "He's always been into ... stuff. I thought it was exciting, dangerous." She trails off, but her eyes flick to the door. Anger sparks under my skin. "But things change. People change."

"You can't stay here."

She shakes her head and reaches for the door handle. "It's easy for you to say that, Edward. But I haven't got a choice." Then she disappears inside.

I stay on the balcony a few minutes.. Let the heat drain from her pride. I find her on the couch, flicking through the channels, her eyes staring at nothing.

"I'll take you wherever you want to go."

She ducks her head, hides her face from me. "I don't have anywhere else."

There's only so long I can tread water before the rust sets in on my good intentions. "You can stay with me … for tonight. Then tomorrow, we'll sort something out."

The nod of her head is almost imperceptible. I get the answer I want, but I feel torn between the good guy I want to be and the bad guy I am. I'm getting what I want, after all.

* * *

 _AN: I've missed hearing from you all! You still with me?_

 _Kim, Choc and Cat sort my mess out. I've carried on messing around too so any mistakes in this chapter are allllll mine._

 _Kim this one's for you. My 505._

 _See you next week._

 _Sparrow xx_


	12. Chapter 12

**(Twelve)**

I walked into her life and saved it without thinking.

Now, she's walking around mine.

She skirts the edge of the room, fingers trailing, eyes searching—for what, I don't know. I shouldn't let it bother me. I wanted her here. But her fingers keep on touching and her eyes keep on looking. I feel wide open.

You'd think I'd have hidden away my past, but here, in my own space, it's out on display. Photos, awards, journals, memories, and reminders. Her fingers will flick through and find me hidden inside books and magazines. It's only a matter of time.

"Is this your sister?" She leans to get a closer look of happier times.

"Yeah … Ally."

"Huh. She kind of looks like you. You've got the same smile. Does she live here, too?"

"No, she lives with her husband. How did you end up in Seattle? With _him_?" I add on the last bit before I can stop myself.

"I came here after my dad died," she says, her mouth twisting out of shape, showing me her grief before she fixes it. "To get away from reminders he was gone and mistakes I'd made. Sam had already moved to the city … I was struggling and he was a familiar face, so I guess I fell back into old ways."

"You love him?"

"I love our memories." She turns back to my photos, her doors slamming down, until she's back to opening mine. "You ever loved anyone?"

"That's a hard question to answer."

"Why?"

"It's too vague."

"You want me to be more specific?"

"No."

She fires again. "So, have you?"

The hollow wounds in my chest throb. "Yes." I try not to rub at the ache, deflecting back to her. "And you?"

"Sometimes, I'm not sure."

* * *

I order a pizza while she curls up on the couch, her curiosity tamed for now. I didn't think the logistics through when I asked her to stay. One bedroom, one bed.

"You can use my room," I say, choosing to sit in the armchair instead of the bigger space next to her.

"I can't do that. I'll sleep here." She gestures to the couch.

"No, it's fine. You take the bed. I don't sleep much, anyway."

She smiles. "That makes two of us." Her words tie another knot between us. Mutual sleep deprivation to add to the rest.

The hours ahead of us stretch further. We get closer and closer. Her hands find my knee when she laughs, arms brushing as we watch TV, eyes lingering as we flirt, then back to the beginning when it gets too much and one of us steps back. My self-control is at snapping point by the time the pizza arrives.

"So what do you want to do tomorrow ... about your place?"

She slides her plate away from her and wipes her hands on a napkin, wiping her smile away, too.

"I need to go back."

"Why?"

"I need to get my stuff, and I need to talk to Sam."

I can already see the way this is going to pan out. I saw it happen to Alice a dozen times before she found Jasper. They think he'll change. That he'll care enough to try. They don't—they never do. I didn't.

I rub my hand down my face. If I can't save her from things inside her home, I can at least protect her from outside. "I'll fix your door first."

"You don't have to."

"Yes, I do." I stand and tidy away the trash so she can't argue with me, deciding to take it down to the garbage cans rather than dump it in the kitchen. I need to clear my head. I need a smoke. I take my time, getting more pissed off with the whole situation as the minutes pass and the nicotine filters through my veins. I pretend I'm not jealous that our game of push and pull now has other players.

She's waiting in the kitchen when I get back. I don't try to be nice. "You should get some sleep."

She pulls her hands into her sleeves, wraps herself up against the change in my temperature. "Okay. Can I at least get a glass of water?" A frown follows as she hones her sharpness to match mine. "Then, I'll get out of your way."

I nod. "Fine. Glasses are in the second cupboard along the wall. I need to grab some stuff from my room." She's already got her back to me.

Leaving her with the tap running, I grab some sheets, shoving a pile of books under my bed, clothes in the hamper, get my gym stuff for the morning. I'm making all the right moves. But it feels like a charade. If her hands and eyes wander any more, I won't stop them. And I'll be back in this bed, her clothes discarded on the floor with my good intentions.

I find her waiting for me, her face hardened. "Why do you keep helping me?"

I walk past her and throw the bedding on the couch. I can't reply because there are too many answers, and she won't like any of them. None of them are that I'm a knight in shining armor.

"It's late. Get some sleep." I sit down, my back to her, watching the flickering TV but only listening for her.

She doesn't listen to me. "I'm not tired."

"Well, I am."

She comes to stand in front of me, her hands clenched. "Why do you flip and change like that?"

I lean my head back to see her. "I don't know what you mean."

"You know exactly what I mean. One minute you're here and the next you're gone. You ask me to stay, then you act like I'm imposing on you. You tell me you don't want to know me, then you do. You avoid me, then you're always there … You didn't let me jump."

Her anger is too bright, and I want to shield my eyes. "Why didn't you jump before I got there?"

"I … because … I—" She slaps her hands down against her thighs. "I don't know." Her eyes are shining with tears. "Don't ask me that."

"Why not?"

"Why didn't you drink yourself to death?"

"I tried." The force of this truth surprises us both.

My honesty pierces a hole in her anger, and she starts to deflate. She says my name. It's drawn out with a sigh that softens its corners, like it means more to her than it does to me. She reaches out and traces the collar of my T-shirt. "I'm glad you didn't try hard enough."

I wrap my fingers around her wrist. I want her to stop—she doesn't. She climbs onto my lap, and I don't push her away, but I keep hold of her wandering hands. She needs to keep them to herself.

"Edward," she says again. This time, it's different. It's not a plea. It's a wish I shouldn't grant.

"You don't want this." I'm so full of contradictions; my voice is already stained by the lust that's bleeding all over her. We're covered in it, and as it seeps into my body, she rocks against my reaction, her fingernails leaving scars on the inside of my arms. I hold the space from my lips to hers, but even from here, I can taste her.

"You don't want this," I say again. I want her to hear everything I'm not telling her. They're the most important things I've never said.

I increase the pressure on her wrists as she starts to move closer. But I'm just holding off the inevitable, knowing it'll feel that much better when I finally give in. Her lips find their destination against my ear, stinging like a bee. "Don't tell me what I want."

Then she pushes against my chest and stands. I reach out for her, too far gone to care, but she steps back. Her body is aflame but her eyes have gone out. "Goodnight, Edward."

* * *

I can't sleep. I don't think she can, either, but I don't check on her when I leave at the first glimpse of sunlight. The gym is already open, early risers letting off steam. I put my head around the office door, but Riley's not in, so I head to the back to change.

There's only one person in the locker room, but it's more crowded than it's ever been. Em, collapsed and sweaty on the benches, opens one eye when he hears me. I unzip my hoodie and hang it in the locker with my bag and keys, waiting to see how it's going to play out. I half wonder if he's slept here.

He speaks first. "Still alive, then?"

"Yep."

"Still seeing the girl?"

"No," I say, then correct myself for the sake of our unravelling friendship. "Yes, but not like that."

He sighs, and when I turn, he's closed his eyes again, his arm flung over his face.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to tell me that this girl is just a friend, nothing more than that."

"She's not." I answer the first part of his question, leaving the rest to his interpretation. Only, he can read me as easily as the logo on my T-shirt.

"You know you can't do it this way, E. You need to take a step back. Don't let the old you take over. He's a dick and doesn't know what's good for him."

"I know what I'm doing."

He shakes his head, pressing his lips together. He knows he doesn't need to say the words building behind them. I've heard them all before. He disappears into the showers without responding.

I have two choices: I need to walk away or I need to step back and think. I've never been one to take things slow, and I don't think she is, either. I need to get her out of my system, and there's only one way I know how.

* * *

 _AN: Hi everyone. It was fab to hear from so many of you last week and to know that you're hanging in there with me. What are we going to do with E?_

 _Since Kim, Choc and Cat weaved their magic, I have been adding bits here and there and making up the punctuation as I go along. Sorry girls._

 _Love to them and everyone reading._

 _See you next week. Have a lovely weekend._

 _Sparrow. xx_


	13. Chapter 13

**(Thirteen)**

My apartment is empty when I return. But _she's_ everywhere. The smell of coffee, the bed made better than I'd ever make it. The bowl where I keep the matchbooks looks exactly the same, but _The Red Lantern_ is left on the countertop.

I don't hang around to see if anything else is different, heading to work as if nothing has changed. I try to picture how I'm going to get past her. I can't decide whether to head to one of my old haunts and pick up a stranger, or if I should call on some old "friends." I wonder what Bella would say if she saw me with another woman. I think it all through. Then again. Yet every scenario, the woman I'm with is Bella. The thought of coming home to find her still there is more powerful than anything else I can imagine. This is how I know I won't see it through. How I know I won't revert to type. I'm almost relieved.

It used to be easy to lose track of time in written words—not anymore. Some days they pour like wine, others, the bottle runs dry. But for once, I get through the workload quicker than I have in weeks. The reason? I have somewhere to be afterward.

The front door to her apartment building is closed this time, but it only takes one little lie to the woman in 450 to get myself inside. Bella's door is closed, too, so I knock. There's no response, so I let myself in. I tell myself she'd be okay with it. I try her cell, but it rings out, so I go on with what I came here to do.

The lock could be repaired, but I figure she might want a new one. It only takes me around an hour. I keep an ear out for any noises, but there's no sign of her. I wager whether I should wait inside but decide against it. The right decision, I realize, when I hear heavy boots on the stairs.

Tahoe rounds the corner, eyes fixed on the phone in his hand. When he sees me standing outside his door, he immediately switches on, eyes wary. "Who are you?"

I don't like to answer questions, especially to fucks like him. He flexes his fingers, curls them into a ball as he looks me up and down. He hesitates when he spots the wrench by my feet. "You here to mend the door?"

"Yeah." I gesture at the broken lock. "How'd it happen?"

He rakes a hand through his spiked hair, follows it up with a shrug. "Some kids tried to break in."

"Kids, huh? This doesn't look like kids, to me."

"Oh yeah, what does it look like?"

"You tell me."

"Why the fuck would I do that?" He pushes out his chest and straightens, trying to gain a few inches, but I've got the advantage of not giving a shit—about anything. "Who called you out … Bella?"

"I'm just lending a helping hand. For a _friend_ ," I add and his dark eyes flicker with anger.

"What did you say your name was again?"

"I didn't."

"Well, whoever you are, you can leave. I can handle this myself."

I laugh. It has the desired effect and trips his switch.

"I don't know who the fuck you think you are, hotshot, but you need to get the hell out, and stay away from Bella, too."

I fold my arms, and cock my head. This guy kills me with his stupidity. "Is that a threat?"

"Take it however you like. Edward, isn't it?" He smiles like a kid who's worked out where the cookie jar is hidden. "You're the one she's been seeing? The drunk."

His knowledge puts me on the back foot for a second, but I don't show him the loss of balance. "And you're what ... her landlord, or maybe just a cockroach infesting her place?"

"You've no idea who I am?"

"Nope. Maybe you should fill me in." His face hardens and I wait for him to lash out.

"I'll make this easy for you. Stay away from Bella, then we won't have to be introduced."

"And if I don't?"

He takes a step toward me, his muscles coiling with his fists. "Then we have a problem."

"I'm good with problems."

He laughs again, and then he lunges. I dodge his heavy movement easily. His nostrils flare like a bull. I wave a red rag. "It's funny, because she never even mentioned you and she had plenty of opportunities."

He snorts, and throws everything he has to scare me off. "I wouldn't believe a word out of that bitch's mouth."

I dip under another lunging punch, and land a right hook on his jaw with a crack. I've been in my cage too long, and this fucker has made the mistake of letting me out.

I punch him in his face—one, twice. Blood on his lips, my knuckles. He touches the split skin, tastes the wound, then cracks his neck and hunkers down to go in for seconds. I twist out the way, but make the mistake of turning left—it gives him the chance to grab the wrench lying outside the door.

The metal smashes into my ribs, doubling me over, and as his fist catches my temple, stars explode in my vision.

I unravel my rage and slam my body into his. It causes him to stumble, and I take the chance to take him down. His head hits the floor with a sick thud that momentarily stuns him. He drops the wrench, and I pin him down, my knee on his arm, my elbow across his neck, choking his fight out of him.

Blood in my mouth. A siren in the distance. A woman shouts up the stairs, telling us she's called the police. I spit, staining the concrete red beside his head.

"If she wants to go. You let her." I reach into my back pocket and pull of a wad of cash, slamming it down next to him. "That should cover her debt."

I release my hold on him. He's too dazed to fight back, so I stand, leaving him on the ground. He's wary now, but still stupid. "You're welcome to her."

He has no clue what he's willing to give up or how much I want it. "Stay away," I repeat.

I head down the stairs before the cops can show up. My heart is racing, my body is screaming, but the only thing I listen to is the voice inside my head telling me I need to find Bella.

* * *

She still hasn't answered her phone by the time I get home. I strip off my clothes and examine the bruises already spreading under my skin, bleeding across my ribs. _Fuck_. The shower does little to ease my aches. I rest my hands against the cool tiles, let the burning water scald my head. The adrenaline drains away with the water, its absence leaves me feeling weak and tired. And stupid. I let my forehead drop against the tiles, too, and I stay there until the water runs cold.

I've given up trying to sleep. I'm too wired, and I don't have the patience to wait for it to creep over me. The noise of the TV is a hum, and the sirens on the streets are my only company until Bella turns up, banging on my door.

She barges past me into the apartment as soon as I turn the lock, leaving me squinting into the fluorescent-bright hall. "Hello to you, too."

I close the door as she flips the main light on . She's in my face as soon as I turn around.

"What the hell happened?" Her eyes scan the welt on my cheek, the growing shadow of my black eye. "Why have I got a hundred missed calls from Sam? Texts and voicemails, shouting about you?"

"You should talk to him." A headache buzzes behind my eyes. I rub at them and turn the light back off, plunging us back into the half-light of regret and bad ideas. I try to walk past her, but she halts me with a hand against my damaged ribs. I hiss out a curse, and she pulls her hand back like she's been stung.

"Are you okay?"

I shrug her off and collapse on the couch, stiff and aching in every bone. "I'm fine."

"You're not, so stop saying that to me." She comes to perch on the edge of the coffee table, tucking her hands under her thighs, blocking the flickering TV screen.

I can't find the energy to move my head to look elsewhere, so I focus on her. She's flicking between emotions like the pages of a book under my thumb. Concern, anger, hurt, concern, anger, exhaustion. "I'm okay. It's nothing I can't handle."

"What happened?" she asks again, this time dialled down to match the muted newsreader talking about oil prices.

I want to work out where I stand before I tell her—on the line or way over it. "Haven't you spoken to him already?"

"No, there's no point when he's like that … but I've got an idea." She gestures to my state.

I'm pissed that he's still an issue, but all I can do now is wait and see. What he does. What she does. "I went to fix your door."

"And Sam was there?"

"No ... not at first. But he arrived not long after." I lean my head back against the cushions, her attention making me conscious of the state of my face. I tell her everything. I realize how bad it sounds. How bad I sound. I see that I've made choices that weren't mine to make. I moved her pieces and tricked her into checkmate. When I look back at her I expect to see disgust, not the sadness folding in on her. I'm a class A asshole.

"I shouldn't have done that," I say, wanting to bring back the fire in her eyes.

She shrugs, standing and heading into the kitchen. In the darkness she's a shadow, as if she's left herself behind. I follow her, wincing at the twinge in my ribs as I move.

"Do you have any ice?" She pulls open the freezer, searching around and finding nothing but an old, empty bottle of Cuervo. A keepsake. My own message in a bottle. Her hand glances over it, and I expect a snarky remark, but she remains silent, smashing out a handful of cubes and wrapping them in a hand towel.

She reaches up and presses it against my T-shirt. "Is it sore here?"

I nod, and she presses a little harder, her chin tilting with a glimpse of nerve.

"I'm sorry, Bella," I say again, and can't help but add, "He's no good."

She sighs and busies herself wrapping and rewrapping the ice. "No … he's not, but …" She frowns and dips her head, worrying at the ice pack for a second until she shakes whatever she was going to say away, and returns to tending to my wounds.

I can't stand to have her help, but I don't want her to stop touching me. I settle on holding my hand over hers, pressing the edges of ice against my swollen rib cage until it screams. "Talk to me."

"It's just that you say he's no good, but … he's all I have here and, well … then you let things slide, I guess."

"You shouldn't have to."

"Yeah, but I've known him for a long time, and I was trying to get myself straight, to get my own place."

"You think he would ever let you go? It's a game to him. You're a game."

"He loves me." She's fierce again now, holding on to this untruth like it's the final piece of her flawed armor.

"Maybe," I say.

 _He doesn't._

 _Not like I could._ I can't work out if I'm lying to myself or if it's a seed of truth that might grow.

The burn of the ice is replaced by the burn of her fingers as they slide under my shirt. She raises the hem with her other hand, following the reddening slices across my side. The damage to my skin is vibrant in the dim light. Black and blue. Red and raw. She counts up my ribs, fingertips fluttering as gently as she dares. "You should get this looked at. They might be broken."

"They're not," I say.

We're both damaged in places you can't see or feel, by people and places that have left their graffiti under our skin. It won't come off; we can only cover it with our own markings. She presses in the wrong place, against an old wound, hidden under new. I flinch as if she's ripped her nails over me. It frightens her away.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."

"It's okay. You didn't." I pull my T-shirt back down and step back. I've known her for what feels like a minute and a lifetime, depending on where I let my barriers fall, but this final one might be too high to get around. "Do you need to stay here tonight?"

"Do you want me to?"

She waits patiently for an answer I'm not going to give, wrapping her arms around herself the longer the silence grows. I've already said too much and I think she know what I want. She gives up and shows me her cards. It's a bad hand. "I need to see Sam … to talk."

"And then what?"

She mirrors my silence. Of course, she would. She's getting good at playing me at my own game.

"Be careful," I say, fighting back the urge to pull her to me, to take what I want and make her mine.

She hovers likes she's waiting for that, too, but then rushes out when the sand in our unexpected acquaintance finally runs out.

It's exactly what I wanted.

It's exactly what I need.

Isn't it?

I stand for a second, torn between chasing after her but force myself to fill that urge with another bad habit instead. I climb out onto the fire escape and light up. It gives me a chance to watch her walk away. But the pull to go to her only grows, and I wonder when it'll snap—whether it will—or if we're just tangled elastic.

I get my answer when she stops dead, causing people on the sidewalk to swerve round her. _Turn around_. As soon as I think it, she does, darting across the road, oblivious to the car that screeches to a halt behind her. My heart falls to the floor then races back up when she disappears back into my building. I can't get to the door fast enough. I want her too much to think about the damage. I need her enough to risk everything I'm trying to achieve because, for the first time, something makes me feel alive. She gives me a reason.

* * *

 _AN: Thank you for reading, you lovely lot. He's getting himself in deep isn't he?_

 _Quadruple thanks to my girls for their extra help this week. I've been a pain._

 _Extra love to TLS esp Kim and Nic for rec'ing ACOY this week. You're too kind._

 _And lastly, all the love to Choc and Ficsisters for featuring ACOY a couple of weeks ago. Choc did the most amazing write up. She's brilliant, and I love her dearly._

 _See you all next week._

 _Sparrow xx_


	14. Chapter 14

**(Fourteen)**

She storms through the door again minutes later.

A whirlwind with red cheeks and bright eyes, she shoves me hard in the chest. It's unexpected, and I step back away from her.

"That night on the bridge, why did you go out of your way?" She's breathless and accusing as if I purposely tricked her into living. "Why did you help me? I need to understand before …"

"Before what?

"Edward, please."

I rake my hands through my hair, my reasons as elusive as my resolve to stay away from her. "I don't know. I couldn't leave you there."

"Some people would've let me be … "

"Be what? Dead?"

"Yes."

"Is that what you wanted?"

"I don't know … and I don't know what this is." Her hand flits between us. "But … I need to know what it is you want."

"Bella," I warn her.

"Tell me. What do you want?" She whips around the apartment searching for something. I follow her as she's rifling through the matchbooks. "Is this it? Romy 515-1227 from The Blue Pig." She drops the book to the floor, picking up another. "Jane from Vito's. Lucy from Star and Garter. Is this what you want? What I am?" She holds out one to me—I know what it is before she puts it in my hand. _The Red Lantern_. "Am I one of your collection?"

"No," I say, cementing its truth in my own mind as the word leaves my mouth. She's more than that. She's too much to ever be a moment in time, a distraction. "You're not one of those."

"Then what am I? A charity case? A game? Why do you want to be around me?"

"Why wouldn't I?" I toss the book back on the table and reach out for her, but she steps away.

"Do you always do that?"

"What?"

"Answer with another question? It's infuriating."

I spread my arms in supplication. "What do you want to know?"

She takes a step closer, lowers her voice and her eyes, before they're back on me. Dangerous intention punctuates each word. "What do you want?"

"You."

Her breathing hitches her chest with the certainty of my answer.

"So what's stopping you?"

"Myself."

"Why?"

"I want you. Like I've never wanted a woman before … anything before … with the exception of only one other thing."

She blinks as I step closer again, as I pull the zipper of her coat down and push it off her shoulders. This time she stops my hands, wrapping cold fingers around my wrist. "You think I'm bad for you?"

"I know you are."

"I think you're bad for _me_ ," she says.

"That's true, too."

"Then we shouldn't do this." But instead of pushing me away she lets go of my wrist, lets my hands and eyes trespass.

"No, we shouldn't," I repeat, but we're deaf to it, our ears filled with the roar of doing what we want. I find the edge of her sweater and slide my hand up against her warm skin. "Will you stop me?"

She shivers under my touch. "I don't think I can."

I look at her then. I give her a chance to stop this. I've gone too far already. She's chasing through my veins—nothing short of death will stop that. I think she can live without me. If she wants to. But then I see the way she's looking at me, the parted lips, flushed skin—I'm already written all over her. She's mine, and I won't let her go. "Then don't."

There's no time for tenderness. No time to savor her. We're teeth clashing and lips finding whatever they can in the split seconds between breaths. Ferocious desire as she grabs my hands to take her clothes off, then when I'm not quick enough she pushes back and rips at them herself.

We don't make it farther than the hallway. We don't undress, her clothes only removed enough to allow me in, my jeans pooled on the floor as I pull her body to mine. Her still-cold fingers dig into my shoulder blades. I lift her up on the small table. Have to steady myself against the wall to slow down. Consider whether I can make the few paces to the dark bedroom. She whimpers as I step back, locks her ankles around me, forcing me back into her arms. "Here," she breathes.

I feel her hand wrapping around me, warmer and gentler. I shudder out a moan as she moves slowly, each downward movement pulling me closer. All the hesitation and ways I had planned to draw this out leave my body in a breath of air. I let her guide me, steal the last bit of time before we're both done for.

The need to be inside her surges through me like an electrical current. I hook my fingers in her panties and pull them to the side, sliding in with one thrust. She cries out and raises her hips, her hands scrambling for grip on my back as I pull out and push back in. Again. Again. Again.

Sounds fill my ears. The thud of her back against the wall, hot puffs of breath humid against my neck, jaw, and lips, the rattling of the table.

I want to see more of her, to watch as I touch her and unravel her from inside out, so I carry her to the bedroom.

Lowering her on the bed, she moans at the loss of contact, panting and flushed, slick with our sweat. Her breasts shudder with every breath. I reach out and cup one in my hand, pinching and twisting, moans pouring out of her.

"Edward, please."

I kneel and grab her hips as they lift back to me again. Sliding back into her and allowing myself to feel deeper than I'd dared imagine.

There's nothing other than me and her and this. How she feels, how she makes me feel. The scent of her skin, her breath. The sounds. There's nothing else. No one else. No reasoning. No thought. Just want. She screams, quivers around me, grasping and suffocating because there's nothing left to breathe than each other.

I don't think about Em's warning. I don't think about the 12 steps, or the risk of falling with Bella—someone who has a less than stable grip on her own life. Almost as unstable as mine. I'm heading from one addiction straight into another. I think she is, too. Both of us on the run with nowhere else to go.

Now I know what she's capable of making me feel, I'll never be able to get enough.

It's the beginning and the end.

* * *

AN: Thank you, thank you, thank you, lovelies. See you all soon. xx

(Choc, Cat, Kim - ILY) x


	15. Chapter 15

**(Fifteen)**

Snow has flooded the city with silence. It makes every moment with Bella louder.

We haven't left my apartment for two days. My phone died yesterday; I haven't bothered to charge it. Though it seems everything has come to a standstill outside of our bubble, I know my voicemail will be full—Emmett, Mike, and if I'm unlucky, Alice. But Bella is making french toast, her legs bare, dressed in my old vintage T-shirt, and the thought is forgotten.

Flashes of her bent over my couch, riding on top of me, under me, on her knees, skin red-raw from my floorboards, set my mind back on the only track it seems to run. I try to pull her back to me, but she swats me away with a laugh. "Time out."

It's not a concept I know.

Later we lie in twisted sheets, trapped in a snow globe. She rolls over, pulling the quilt over her nakedness, tucking it between her thighs. She fixes me with that stare of hers. The one that always preempts an observation I won't like.

"Why don't you sleep?"

"I do, just not for long."

Her fingers find the rings around my eyes, press as if her warmth will turn blues to pink. "What do you dream about?"

"Isn't that something you do when you're asleep?"

"Not always."

"Tell me yours and I'll tell you mine," I say, bouncing it back to her.

"Do you have nightmares?"

"Why do you ask that?"

She shrugs further under the covers, further away from whatever it is she's really getting at.

"What?" I ask.

"I read one of your stories ... pieces. I hope that was okay?"

I feel like the one with red-raw burns for a second. I'm so far from what I was I don't recognize myself anymore. But I can't distance myself when the words are in black-and-white, my name tagged to their edges.

"Which one?"

"The one about the last village. The boys and their guns. And what happened to them."

I try to separate the story I told and the memories I have. One is manageable. The other doesn't belong anywhere near Bella in this bed. It doesn't belong anywhere but in hell.

"That one," is what I say.

She nods, only her eyes above the covers now. Her hands reaching for me. I try not to move away.

I think the snow is settling over me. It's cold. I need warmth. Her body helps but only one thing has enough heat to burn memories like that away. I remember now why I drank. What it could do. Why it wasn't always the worst thing. I swallow back the desire.

"Those things must have affected you."

"I wouldn't be human if they didn't."

She's looking at me now like she understands me. Like she's adding my time in a war zone with my time in AA and getting the result she wanted. It's only part of the equation.

I fight the urge to escape and instead bury myself against her skin. "Now tell me about one of yours."

She takes so long I think she's fallen asleep when she finally speaks. "I have a recurring dream. About my dad."

"A bad dream?"

"Yes and no." Her cold toes bury themselves under my legs as she curls herself closer to me. "It's ... he's there which makes it a happy dream until I wake up. Then it's a nightmare."

"What changes?"

She skips to the next question. "He was in a car accident. Ice, worn tires, and hundred-year-old oaks don't mix."

"I'm sorry," I say, knowing how useless those two words are.

"I dream that he's at my graduation. I'm so nervous about going up on stage, but then I see him in the crowd, and he does this thing he always did, like a wink and a salute, and then I'm okay. I go up, and it's fine because he's there. Ironic, really."

"Because he died before then?"

"Because I never graduated."

She looks right at me then, trying to spot something in my reaction before she continues. It's the closest I've been to understanding out what this girl in my bed is made from, so I find where her hand rests on my chest and cover it with my own. It's all she needs.

"I failed my senior year, but I guess that makes it sound like I tried." She rolls over onto her back, faces the ceiling. It's an easier audience. "I didn't try. I didn't even turn up."

"At all?"

"Not at the end. Before that, I was popular and part of the track team. I had good grades and went to every party."

Exactly the kind of girl I would've made her mine if she were at my high school. I would have fucked it up, and then this would be a very different story. "What happened?"

"Nothing, really. There wasn't a reason. Or maybe there was, but it's nothing you can pity me for."

"Why would I pity you?"

"If I had a reason to fuck it all up, like trouble at home or school, you might try and understand or tell me it was the best I could do. But I wasn't unhappy. My home life was good. My Dad worked then spent all his free time with me or at the bowling alley. He had a few girlfriends but none ever stuck around. I think he was happy, but I didn't look close enough to know any better. I was too wrapped up in myself, and then I started to get bored. I wanted more than to be popular and to get good grades. Then Sam moved to town. He had his own rules, and I wanted to live by them. By the time he graduated, school held nothing for me. No matter what my dad and my teachers begged, yelled, and pleaded. I didn't hear them. I couldn't see that if I wanted more for myself, all I had to do was listen."

"You were young," I say, even though part of me wishes I could have been there to snap her out of it. The other part is jealous of her bond with that fuck. What could he have to offer that would make her throw her life away? How could his draw have been so strong? But I can't talk. I threw mine away for less.

"I was stupid. I got suspended regularly, and my grades were awful. I didn't care, because I was going to move to San Fransisco with Sam and work in his bar. It was our big dream. But then my dad … well, by that time, I'd burnt my bridges with everyone who cared." She looks back over to me as if she's checking I'm here. I don't move. This is the most I've heard her talk, and the journalist in me is biding his time, gathering whatever he can before she realizes I'm the last person she should confide in. Happy my eyes are on her, she continues. "When my dad died, there were a lot of debts. Ones we knew about. Ones we didn't. I had no way to cover them."

"Your mom?"

"I don't have one. Or I only have half an idea who she is. Dad swore he found me on the doorstep in a fruit box." A small smile to the whitewash wall. "From rumors and gossip I've picked up over the years, she was a singer he met at the local roadhouse. Renee something ... I don't care." She stiffens against the lie. "He fell madly in love with her, only she used to open her legs for half the town until she skipped it and left Dad with a newborn." I don't know if she realizes, but her cheeks show how really feels about this. "I used to ask Dad if I was really his." She blinks too fast for her smile to hold. "He said no one else could be to blame for my stubbornness. I have his eyes, too."

"Have you tried to get in touch with her?"

"I don't want to."

I don't want to argue that calling her mom could slow the waves of loneliness radiating off her. It could also kill her. So I change the subject, flipping over on top of her. She opens to me like I'm the sun. "You could always go back to school."

She shifts under me, eyes closing under my weight. "No, I can't."

"You can." I lower myself until I feel her heart thudding everywhere our skin meets. "You can do anything you want."

He eyes flash open. "So can you."

She's too close, so I push her back into the space I can handle. My fingers sliding under the sheets, between her legs, into her. She moves against my hand, feet sliding as they try to steady the tremors. "Why do you make me feel like this?" She whimpers and twists underneath me.

 _It's easy_ , I want to say. You're meant for me. But I can't fucking cope with that thought yet. I kiss her, and it's deeper and desperate. More than I meant it to be. My walls are falling down around me.

It could be any hour of the day when I wake up. The white coat the city wears doesn't tell the time. Days and nights have merged into me and her. I'm watching clumps of snow lose their grips and slide down the bedroom window when there's a knock at the front door. Bella stirs beside me. Says my name. The unwelcome visitor knocks again.

"Shouldn't you get that?" She's sleep soft and pink, eyes creased and her hair the clue to what we've been doing. I'm so exhausted, but the pull to her grows. I lean over and press my lips to her shoulder. She smells like sex and sugar.

The knocking ramps up, and I groan into her skin. She jerks away laughing. "That tickles." She pulls the covers around her, reaching down to the floor to look for her clothes. I ignore the door.

"Come back to bed." My request is interrupted by Emmett's shout.

"Edward. I know you're in there! Can you answer the door? We need to talk." There's no humor in his request. I can't deal with him like this. "E, I mean it. Please."

'You should speak to him. He sounds pissed." She's already pulling away from me. I reach out and wrap my arm around her waist, yanking her back until she's pressed against me again. Naked and how I want her. Emmett hears her squeal.

"Fuck you, man. Fuck you." His fist thumps the door, and then it's silence apart from the gasp Bella makes when I take her from behind.

I don't care how he must have crossed the city to get here.

Or how he must be worried about me.

I don't think about calling him.

Or at least sending a text.

I don't care.

I don't fucking think.

And that's a fatal flaw.

* * *

 _AN: thank you for reading. I love hearing your thoughts/rants/love. You're the bee's knees._

 _Kim, Choc and Cat rock my socks and run-on sentences._

 _See you soon._

 _Sparrow x_


	16. Chapter 16

**(Sixteen)**

Bella disappears one morning while I'm in the shower. Her note on the countertop tells me nothing. _Be back soon_. It's not enough to stop my mind racing back to her apartment, crashing into the image of her returning to Sam. I stop the thought before it makes me dangerous.

I grab my gym gear and make my way through the grey slush to _Whitlock's_. It's quiet and the bag is free to go however many rounds I can handle. I lose the gloves at some point, and it's only when my knuckles are red-raw that I stop.

Surprised that Riley hasn't turned up to goad me, I seek him out in the back office, but it's Alice who answers my knock. She has a pile of papers in one hand, the phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. I'm shocked to see her but she stares at me as if we're strangers. I'm relieved when she steps aside to let me in without a word, instead returning to a brutal showdown she's having with whomever is on the other end of the line.

She slams the phone down with a curse. I start to regret today's decisions.

"Long time no see." She's still seething, her hand on her hip. I see how big she's grown. Her bump a basketball under her sweater.

"Everything okay?" I eye the phone that's done well to remain in one piece.

"Just the assholes down at the Tribune making my life more difficult than it needs to be."

"The Tribune?"

"They're writing a piece on the gym and our young offenders program, but they keep changing the times and shifting the angle for the story."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"You could write it for me."

She smiles like she's joking, but I know her better.

I stay away from her sharp edges. "I can speak to Lenny for you. He's on the sports desk and should be able to send someone good."

"Don't worry. I'll sort it out." She turns her back on me and files away whatever she needs to avoid taking the conversation down a dark alley. I let her anger boil down. True to form she can't stand the quiet for long. Curiosity tugging the words out. "Are you okay?"

"I'm good." I say and offer her a half a smile incase she's going to continue to be a bitch.

"So I guess you've not heard?"

"Heard what?"

The way she chews on her lip gives away her nerves, and I brace myself.

"You spoken to Mom?"

I raise my eyebrows in answer.

"I figured." She frowns and sits down, resting her hands over her bump. A sigh introduces the bombshell. "She's organizing a memorial for Dad."

"How nice for her." Ali winces, and I immediately feel bad.

"She wants us to say something."

"Like?"

"Don't make this difficult for me, Edward." Her eyes flash with anger, turning her into our father. His features are reflected in his daughter. Not many of them are found in me.

"I'm sorry." I pick up a pen and twist it through my fingers to give myself something to focus on other than the growing anger with Mom. "What does she want us to do?"

"She wants me to speak about Dad or to read a poem. I don't know." She rests her head back against the chair. "I don't know what to say."

I nod, already knowing she won't be able to do it. The shattered memory of his funeral flares up—Alice was unable to do anything other than breathe, and even that was a challenge.

"And she expects me to join in?"

She shrugs. "I think so. Are you sure she hasn't called?"

I think back over the past few days lost with Bella. "It's possible. I've been busy."

"With work?"

"Yeah," I lie, not ready to share.

"You think you can make it? Maybe say something … with me?" She's suddenly my little sister again.

My throat closes up. One of us would have to, and she sure as shit won't be able to. "I'm not sure."

She holds her hands up. "Don't answer now. Just think about it."

I swiftly change the subject as ask how Jasper is. She tells me about unrelenting deserts in foreign countries, places as familiar to me as my home town, the late night calls and sketchy video messages, and the days she's counting down till he's home, rapidly disappearing into the days until their baby is due. His absence is slowly cracking her shell. She has people to fill in the gaps until he's home. In another lifetime I could probably be there for her too, but not this one.

I make my excuse to leave.

"You sure you're okay?" She always double checks, like she making up for not asking enough the first time round. As if I wouldn't have fucked up so much if she'd tried harder.

Bella is my first thought and I try and hide the effect on her on my face, ducking my head and running fingers through my still damp hair. "Yeah. I am."

She spots something because I get a genuine smile when I look up. "Well it's good to see you." She comes over and pinches my ear, a flashback to simpler times to soften her reminder. "Think about Dad's thing, E."

...

I avoid thinking about my dad until I get home, but when Bella isn't there, it's my only company. I should be able to stand up and talk about a man I loved, but in letting him down so vitally, I can't help but feel I've lost the right. The more I try to imagine myself doing the right thing, the more I feel myself pulled to make the wrong choices. Choices which got me here in the first place.

I shower off the remnants of the gym. Swiping at the steamed up mirror, I go through the routines—brush my teeth, sort my hair. I don't shave, adding another day's growth. Bella told me she liked the feel of it, the opposite of clean shaven Sam, which flips my thoughts back to her. I ignore what my reflection is trying to tell me. A sorry story.

There's nothing else to do but go to work. I hardly get through the stack of shit I've let pile up. My mind's elsewhere. With Bella. With Dad in an ice-cold parking lot. The only time I've ever seen him cry. The last time I saw him. Unspoken words rising between us, things that were never said.

The fact it's a Thursday only dawns on me when the sun is already a rumor. I call Bella's cell, but she doesn't answer. I'm close to derailing by the time I leave the office, so I do what I know and head downtown to AA.

Maggie is smoking outside, like a moth lit up under the streetlamp. Her smile feels like the only warmth in the entire city. "Hello, stranger. You're a sight for these old eyes."

"How're things?" I ask and join her, pulling out my own smoke.

"I've been worse," she says, her eyes bright in a sunken face. They're all over me, looking for signs to my absence. "What about you? I've been worried."

"You shouldn't be. I'm okay, just busy at work."

She gives me the "stop-shitting-me" glare.

"I met someone." A smile follows my admission, lighting hers like a match. I'm not fully comfortable in the way Bella makes me feel, so I play it down. "She's a friend."

"The girl from The Red Lantern."

"I …" I narrow my eyes at her." How did you know?"

"I know everything. My great grandmother was a witch." She cackles, and I believe it as much as I believe in the devil who keeps rattling my bones. I laugh with her, shifting out of the way of faces, some familiar and some not. I almost feel like a stranger myself.

"Is Em inside?" I gesture to the door. Inside the chair's are filling up and I can see Marcus at the front.

"No, not here yet. I was hoping he'd be here with you."

"I've not seen him for a while." I omit his visit to my place. Guilt speeds up my exit. "We better go in." I flick the butt into the dark and make my way inside, ignoring Marcus' introduction while I try to call Em. What the fuck is it with people not answering their cells? Payback, I suppose. I pocket it in my jacket until half an hour's passed and he still hasn't turned up. Still no answer when I get back outside. Or on the bus. Or the short walk to my place.

I switch numbers and try Bella when she's still not at my place. With nothing left to do, I go to bed, turn off the lights and stare at the flickering lights on the ceiling from the cars passing by. I try to reassure myself Em is okay. That Bella's okay. I'm almost as good at talking myself out of stuff as I am talking myself into it.

I'm balancing on the edge of sleep when I hear the door. Bella slides into bed, presses her cold nose against my back. Her arms wrap around me, her hands slide across my skin. Her lips leave kisses and warm breath. "I missed this."

I turn over and tell her about my day. I tell her about my dad, the back cover version that leaves out the good stuff. I tell her about Em and the memorial. Then she makes me forget everything when she moves on top of me, her hair loose, body warm, words soothing.

It's enough to send me falling over the edge, and I sleep deeply for what feels like the first time in almost a year.

But it's not enough to prepare me for what happens when I wake.

* * *

 _AN: I know. Late doesn't even cut it. I'm sorry guys._

 _I hope you're all still with me. I've missed you like crazy._

 _Heaps of love for Choc, Kim and Cat for always being there. I've messed with this chapter since they perfected it so any mistakes are mine._

 _Love Sparrow xx_


	17. Chapter 17

**(Seventeen)**

" _This is a collect call from the Seattle Police Department East Precinct for Edward Cullen. Do you accept?"_

" … yeah."

" _Connecting._ "

"..."

"Hello?"

"..."

"Hey, is someone there?"

* * *

I redial and get shoved from one idiot to another until a woman at the East Precinct picks up.

"I just had a collect call from someone, but they hung up." I knead the headache pulsing its way across my forehead. "Can you tell me who it was?"

"Hold on." She muffles her nasal voice and takes her time to get back to me. I'm climbing the walls, chasing one awful scenario after another while I wait for her to hurry the fuck up.

After some mumbling and banging around, she returns, though I doubt she's even thought about helping me. "Do you have a name?"

I blow air down my nose in an attempt to divert the curses. Insulting someone working with law enforcement is just above the level I'll stoop to—when sober, at least. "No, they didn't say or I wouldn't be ringing. It was only two minutes ago." I'm associated with so many assholes, but if the first contact for months is a call from a prison they can go jump. There's one name that keeps shoving the other aside, no matter how wrong and out of place it is, that's the one I offer her. "Emmett McCarty?"

"How are you spelling that, sir?" she drones, boredom programmed into her voice.

I manage to tell her without adding extra letters F_U_C_K _Y_O_U.

"He was released," is all I get.

"Why? What did he do?"

"I can't give out that information, sir. Is that all, sir?" She ends with a sigh and a snapping chew of her gum. I think I hear her pop a bubble. I try hard not to launch my phone across the room. Bella has joined me on the arm of the couch, a frown spoiling her face.

"Can you tell me if he's still there? Does he need a ride?"

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you that."

I hang up and immediately call Em again. Still no answer. I imagine it's dead after a night in the cells. What the fuck is he doing? I grab my keys while I give Bella a rundown.

"Do you want me to come with you?" she asks.

"Nah, I just need to check he's okay, then I'll be back." I bend down and kiss her cheek, worry twisting like a dagger to my gut. "I'll call you."

* * *

They say the odds of being struck by lightning are 1 in a 3,000. Of dying in a car accident—well, that depends on the risks you take.

The odds of being hit by a train—get off the fucking tracks.

The odds of inflicting your own death—please see above.

* * *

By the time I get down to the precinct, I'm still no closer to finding out where Em's gone. I increase my chances by calling in a favor from one of my old drinking buddies. A cop who still haunts the places I've exorcised myself from. Ben hadn't let addiction get into bed with him, though. Not yet, at least. His was already filled with a beautiful wife he didn't deserve.

He calls me back while I wait out on the steps, fingers like ice while I smoke.

"He was pulled for a DUI over on 23rd."

"Are you sure?" I hope I'm hearing him wrong. The thought of Em relapsing makes my skin clammy. My heart pounds a warning. _Too close to home._ The Em I know and the image Ben is portraying can't be two sides of the same coin. Somebody is shortchanging me.

"Yep, his levels were way over. We're not talking a bottle or two."

"Fuck." I grind out the butt into the dirty, salted slush of the steps. "Fuck." I'm articulate when I want to be. "What the hell is he thinking?"

"Someone from the program?" Ben asks. I hear his kid shrieking in the background, Angela laughing.

"Yeah. My sponsor," I say, and a tide of guilt tries to knock me over, only blame anchors me to the spot. "I didn't have a clue he was close to this."

"Yeah, well, we don't know what we don't know."

"Thanks for that seed of wisdom."

Ben laughs, and I can see the wise guy shrug he's pulling. "You're welcome. Anything else you need?"

"Nah, I gotta try and find him now."

"You got any idea?"

I think of his ritual visits to his old home. "Yeah, maybe." I start to make my way to the parking lot. "Thanks for the heads up. I'll see you around."

"I hope not." He laughs again before the line goes dead.

I can't wrap my head around what's happening without the missing piece. It takes me half an hour to get out to the cozy suburbs where Rose lives: white fences, nice gardens, and all that. The relief when I see his car on the driveway is better than sex. The blinds are still down, though it's almost midday, but I look back to the car again and reassure myself that he's okay, or at least alive. Okay is debatable. I hang around for an hour until I've smoked my pack, then I head home, back to an empty apartment. I call Em a few more times, but his voicemail is full. My reasoning behind not knocking at their door, that they have a lot of shit to talk about, stops me from going back there. I send a few texts and wait it out. I wait for Em, and I wait for Bella.

By the time she's back, my agitation with the Em situation has been directed to her.

I update her on Em's whereabouts. She's more concerned than I thought she'd be, but I tell her not to worry, that I'm giving him space with his family. I don't voice that I'm being a chicken shit about facing the fact that I ignored his calls, and worse, didn't answer the door. I don't ask Bella where she's been all day. The potential answers have already found their way under my skin like shards of glass. I wait while she showers, plucking them out one by one. The monster inside of me tells me she's mine. Mine. Not Sam's. I need her. Not him. Me. It claws at me from the inside out. The same way _she_ did before. The other she. Flammable. Toxic. Suicide. I don't stop to consider the similarities.

"Busy day?" The words are out before she's even noticed I'm sitting on the edge of the bed.

She flips her hair over, water splashing against my bare skin, and wraps a towel around her head, taking her time before she's ready to answer. "I had a few things to do."

"Like what?" I hear the possession creeping into my voice like mold.

"I can't live here forever, Edward. I've got stuff I need to sort out." She laughs and turns her back on me. "I went to see about a job, too."

"Where?"

She spins around, studies me. "What's up with you? You okay?"

I lean back on my elbows to give the image I'm relaxed. "Nothing. Just wondered."

"Hmm," is her response. I hear it as it's meant. And take it too far again, showing her how much I care. Or want. Take it either way.

"So where's the job? Or is it a secret?"

She stalks over, climbing onto the bed, onto my lap, her skin still damp. Her hands push me back onto the bed. Her smile spikes my pulse as the towel around her falls open. She dips to whisper in my ear. "No secrets."

She's not stupid, and neither am I. The distraction technique works for a minute as my body adjusts to hers. "Tell me, then."

She blows a puff of hot air against my neck and pushes against my chest until she's sitting up. The view fills my mind with ideas, pushing my jealously out the door. "It's just at a bar. It's the only thing I could get at short notice."

"Which one?" I ask, relieved when I don't have a history with the one she mentions. _Hockleys._ And that she doesn't pussyfoot about it. I can handle the mention of a bar, just don't let me in one. And don't let me in one with Bella pouring drinks. I'm harder than ever between her legs now, and she twists her hips. I can't keep my eyes open or my hands off.

"You don't mind, do you?" she asks, but I know she doesn't care.

I shake my head. I don't. Especially not the part of me that's relieved I might have a genuine reason to go back to a bar. Or that I can kid myself it is. "Not at all."

"Perfect," she purrs, and then she fucks all my other questions away.

* * *

I sit on the fire escape with a smoke and my phone. The missed call from Em is almost as good as a shot of liquor. Hands like ice, I redial. A female voice answers. Quiet, small, torn. "Hello?"

"Oh … hey, is this Emmett's phone?" I say checking caller ID again. His name is lit up so I'm 90% sure it's Rose, and her tone is scaring the shit out of me.

"Yes," she says, wanting more.

"Erm … is he around?"

"No, he's not. Who is this?"

"It's Edward."

"Oh." Recognition thaws her a little. "It's Rosalie here. His … Emmett's wife, ex wife," she reminds me unnecessarily. "I saw the missed calls, so I called you back. He just has you in his phone as E," she explains.

"Will he be back soon?" I hazard a hope.

A pause while she whispers something, muffling the phone. I imagine him lying in bed next to her while she tries to wake him up. It's an easier image than the one fighting up from under it.

"Are you in Seattle now?" she asks.

"Yeah …" Every tone I'd taken for weariness becomes clearer and darker in my mind. My heart rate climbs higher than the fire escape.

"Can you make it down to the police station, East Precinct?" she breathes, a wobble in her exhale.

"Again?" I say and hear the confusion as she repeats her request. "Is everything alright? Is Em okay?"

"Can you make it?" She's barely listening. Barely breathing between thoughts.

"When do you need me to come?" I'm already scrambling back through the window. Bella looks over at me from her position lying on the couch. She sits up as I race through the apartment to grab my things.

"Now, Edward. Come now."

* * *

 _As always thank you so much for reading._

 _Thank you for your kind words while I've taken my time to update._

 _I'm back up and running now._

 _I missed you and Edward a lot._

 _Nothing I can say about Choc, Kim and Cat can do them justice. They are my superheroes._

 _Sparrow x_


	18. Chapter 18

**(Eighteen)**

Rosalie stands when I burst through the door. Her colors have drained, washed away by today's shitstorm. Her skin matches the gray walls of the waiting room, and her lips are drawn and thin. She attempts a smile, but her lips quiver, a balancing act to stop her tears falling.

The heat inside the station has me ripping off my jacket within seconds, sweat pooling at my collar. "Has there been any news?" I ask as she collapses back into one of the worn-out chairs that line the waiting room.

"No, nothing." It's then that I realize she's with the guy beside her. The guy holding her hand. The one who looks like a cookie-cutter version of Em in a terrible suit. His tie is the most colorful thing in the room. A blue, green, red, purple geometric mess that makes my eyes hurt. He stands and holds out his hand. A good firm handshake. "I'm Eric. Thanks for coming down. Rosie is … we're very worried."

My initial reaction is I want to punch him, defend Em and bring him down a peg or two, but I see how he takes her hand as he sits back down beside her. The way she looks at him like he's going to sort it all out. Hold her together. I keep quiet.

Only then, she looks at me in the same way. It makes my neck itch and I have to look away. She'll learn soon enough who I am. I take in my bearings, it reeks of cheap, burnt coffee and disappointment. "Are you waiting to speak to someone? What are they doing?"

"We have, but they're not doing anything. They're not interested, because he hasn't been missing for 24 hours yet." She starts to cry, again Eric comforts her. I'm really trying not to hate him.

He continues for her, "They said we can file a missing person's report, but that's all for now."

It's not that I don't believe them, but I try to get a different answer from the front desk all the same. The receptionist tells me exactly what I already know. There's nothing we can do unless he poses a risk to himself or others. Falling off the wagon doesn't count.

I head back over and shake my head. If it's possible, Rosalie's face folds in on itself even more.

"What happened last night?" I ask, finding an empty seat across from them. I'm impatient. I want to race out the door. To do something. But trying to find him when he doesn't want to be found is impossible. I might know some of his tricks, but I'm no magician.

Eric stands and pulls on his coat. "I'm going to get us some coffee that doesn't taste like sewage. Can I get you something?" he asks, despite the fact they've already got half-empty cups from the place across the street. I give him credit for this. Whatever happened will be difficult for them both.

"No, I'm good, thanks." He leaves us with space to talk.

Rose looks exhausted. I feel fear radiating off her. "I told you I was here this morning. I think he called me collect."

She scrubs her hand across her face, makeup is smeared under her eyes, her blonde hair scraped off her face. It makes her look older than she is. Worry pinches her features, but she's beautiful despite it all. She fits perfectly with Em. The image I should have in my mind anyway—hosting some kind of party for responsible adults, smiling with their arms around each other, offering entrees and cocktails. Not this clusterfuck I'm witnessing today. I tell myself this is a blip. That I'll find him and sort it all out.

"He was arrested for a DUI." Fresh tears trail black down her cheeks. "He's been sober for almost five years. Five fucking years. How could he do that?" She stands up and rips some tissues from a box left on the side.

"Did something happen before that?"

She starts to tear pieces off the tissue as she speaks. "I've been dating Eric for almost a year and … well, we talked about moving in together and decided it was what we wanted. So, I thought I'd better run it past Em before we told the kids." Her eyes are wide and asking for me to reassure her, so I nod and mutter things about doing things the right way. "I invited him over for dinner, just with me. The kids stayed with friends and Eric was working … I thought I should tell him face-to-face, I knew he'd be upset.

 _No shit_ is all I think, but I nod again, already seeing where the story is going.

"Well, I think Em had different ideas. He was so happy and back to his normal self … " She blushes, stark against her pale skin. A phantom smile brushes past her lips. "He was flirting and I …" Then she bites her lips and looks up at me. "He kissed me. And I let him … for a second. I miss him so much. I still … I love him so fucking much … I just can't do this anymore."

"He got the wrong message?" I try and make it easier for her.

"Yes, and he didn't understand what I was saying. About Eric. He'd got it into his head that I was doing it to make him jealous, but that's not true. Eric, he's a good guy. He's what I need." She sits a little straighter when she says this, like she's affirming it to herself. Like she doesn't quite believe it. "He didn't get it, said he didn't think it was serious. When I told him that it was … he was furious. I couldn't stop him from leaving." She shrugs and sags back into her chair. "I guess he went and got messed up." She laughs, and it's the most painful laugh I think I've ever heard. Raw and grating. "Well, you know what happened next."

"But this was before the DUI? You saw him this morning?"

"Because I'm an idiot, and I couldn't bear him being here." She waves her hand around the barren station, its walls held up with bad vibes. "I reminded him that he'd broken the terms of our custody arrangements. He thought I'd let it go."

"Oh fuck, Rose." I can't stop myself. The implications of this are a knife and my hopes of finding him deflate, slashed seven ways.

She starts to cry properly now. "I told him he couldn't see them until he'd sorted his shit out. I said he'd never see them again if he didn't." She can barely get her words out. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said it … I was so angry with him."

I feel sick, a clammy cold sweat is working its way up my back. My mouth is like sandpaper. How could she not know what that would do to him? I thought this would be a case of rooting Em out from whatever bar or pair of tits he'd buried himself in, but now I feel fucking scared. I should recognize that I'm watching a reflection of my own behavior, but I choose to turn away and focus on now.

I try to understand her. Why she's protecting her girls, herself. Cutting Em off. It's survival 101, and I _do_ understand her. But it still hurts like hell to imagine the pain he must be in. For once, I consider what it must have been like for my family, so I take her hand. "You did what you had to do." And then I lie to her. "He'll be okay."

It calms her enough to start to plan.

"Where should we start to look for him?" I ask as if we don't live in a city with over half a million people in it.

"I've tried everywhere I can think. Do you have any ideas? I don't know as much about what he's been doing these past few years."

I blow out a puff of air, my fingers itching for a smoke to help me think. "You called round his other friends, his family?"

"No one's heard from him, and he would never go to his family. They were … less than understanding." Her blue eyes spark, fiercely protective, giving me a clue as to why, for someone whose life has been ruined by addiction, she's still chasing gutters trying to pull him out. She loves him, there's no doubt, but she's trying to love herself more. I see Alice in her. I hate myself in parallel.

"Have you tried motels, places he liked to hang out?' I don't catch myself quick enough to stop the next option, "Hospitals?"

She flinches, but nods slowly, like the action might crack her into a million pieces if she fully commits to it. "I'll call them."

"I can, if you'd like?" The thought of her trying to find out if he's alive, injured, dead, seems too much. But again, I made my family do it over and over. I'm a fucking hypocrite.

"No. I better do it. I don't think they'd release details to anyone but family anyway." She grabs her phone, their kids' smiling faces flash up on the screen before she swipes to unlock it. I feel like someone's thumped me in the chest. What the fuck, Em, where are you?

"I'm going to drive around town. See if I can find him. Let me know if you hear anything."

I say the same to Eric as he appears with steaming cups, handing me one.

"I know you said you didn't want one, but I thought you'd appreciate it later."

I thank him despite the fact I hate the stuff, because he's right. I'd better fill my veins with caffeine before they're hollow with the need for something stronger.

I head out into the city. Tracing my own path of downward spiral to see if I can find Em caught up in the same drag before it's too late. Ironic if it wasn't so fucking terrifying.

* * *

 _AN: You guys keep me going. Thank you SO much for all the love for this story. I know it's tough and I appreciate you being here with me._

 _Huge thanks for Layathomemom for rec'ing ACOY in TLS this week. She's fab._

 _Also, for those of you who love Bunny and Fluff and might not have got an alert ... Choc and I have updated **The Art of Getting Fluffed**! (Ffn was being awkward and didn't want to share Bunny, clearly.) _

_And, also also, my fav Honeybee Meadows is now posting her amazing story **Grim & Darling** to FFn for us all to read. Don't miss this one, it's something special. (In my favs.)_

 _I also wanted to mention my Choc (aka Carrie Elks). Today was the UK paperback release date of her book **Fix You.** I'm sure you all read it when she posted it here. I'm so proud of her and will likely scream when I come across it in a bookstore. If you've not read it, you really, really should. _

_I'll be quiet now. See you soon. Kisses._

 _Sparrow xx_

 _(Choc, Kim and Cat. All my words are for you. Always.)_


	19. Chapter 19

**(Nineteen)**

Things we hope we know:

\- His phone is dead or lost—we hope _he_ isn't.

\- He's spending money—we hope it's not someone else burning it.

\- He's in Seattle—we _hope_ , or we haven't got a chance.

Things we don't know:

\- Everything.

 **Six hours later**

My heartbeat pulses through every cell in my body. Louder than the bass thudding through the walls. Faster than the wave of sweat-soaked bodies bouncing on the dance floor. It feels like a countdown, as if I'm running out of time. I scan the crowds and come up blank. He's not here, either. I've chased him all over town, longer and harder than any high. No one's heard from him. No one's seen him. He's the invisible man. The elusive catch.

Guilt has tagged along with me, an ever-present sidekick I can't shake. It wonders _what_ and _if_. I want to punch it till its teeth fall out, until its blood drips. It's not helping.

 **Eight hours**

This is a game of tag. We're racing around, waiting to get the first touch. Only there's no one in sight. Only guesses and futile attempts at trying to understand an addict's motivations. Motivation I should know well.

Round and round we go. Until we all fall down.

 **Ten**

Inside The Blue Jay, faded wallpaper is peeling off the walls, and old neon signs flicker above the bar. It's in need of tender loving care, but that's something you'd never find in this dive. Bruised lips from kisses, punches, or both, are what's usually on offer here.

Benny still holds court behind the bar. Built like a brick shithouse, hairy as a bear, he looks at me like I'm a stranger. I suppose I am. This year, at least.

"Hey, man," I say, and it dawns on him who I am. He pours a shot of Mezcal and shoots it across the bar to me before I can stop him. I catch it, smoky liquid splashes onto my fingers. My hand is halfway to my mouth before I catch myself, drying them on my jeans instead. I thank him and spill it onto the sticky floor when he turns back to slot the bottle back into place.

"You good?" He picks up a glass and runs a grimy rag around its inside.

"Yeah, but I'm not here for me. I'm looking for someone. You know Emmett McCarty?"

He scratches the side of his ragged black bead. "Don't think so. Should I?"

I find the picture Rose sent me and pass my phone over. He looks for a few seconds longer than the moment of non-recognition warrants. They all do. I reckon if the cops wanted to find a murderer, it'd be the one who barely glances at the photos, who doesn't even try. Not Benny. He wants to help, to know Em, but he has to shake his head.

My feet feel heavier the more steps I take without bumping into someone who knows Em. Turns out he wasn't like me, burning around the town like a flare gun, blazing, fucking, and smashing his way into people's memories.

I wish he'd been louder in his destruction. A supernova, rather than a star that flickers out so you can never really be sure it was ever there.

 **Twelve**

Three more bars, two clubs, six hotels. Many faces recognize me. None have seen him. Tick tick tick. Boom.

 **Sixteen**

I end where I began. With Bella. She sits beside me without saying anything. My hands are in my hair, my head low. "I don't know what to do."

"You're doing what you can."

"Am I, though?"

"You're not invincible. You have to sleep."

"I can't sleep." I spit its name out like an enemy.

"You need to get rest. Then you can get back out there tomorrow. A fresh start."

"That's what people say when they know the corpse is already rotting."

Her horror escapes, a creaky sound in her throat. "Edward." She says my name like a warning. "Don't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because you're tempting fate."

"Fate is just a word people use to make themselves feel better when life fucks them over."

She snaps her teeth down over whatever response she really wants to say. "You're tired."

It's more like disappointment. I'm spoiling for a fight.

 **A day later**

I'm following my own trail. I didn't leave breadcrumbs, but my mind won't let me forget.

The newly renovated Amble Inn, maybe they didn't think it looked so good after they had to clean my vomit off the carpets and walls.

Aces and Spades, a place I'm still banned from for property damage. The bouncer remembers, so I get some short stuff in a non-existent skirt and red chapped lips to show Em's picture around inside the bar. She doesn't come back with anything other than the offer to blow me for thirty bucks.

I even check the bar next to the empty parking lot of Sixth and Beech, the last place my dad saw me alive.

Take that how you will.

 **Four days**

The longer he's gone, the longer and harder I look. I don't go to work. I don't go to AA. I don't go home. Bella yells at me. Alice yells. Rose cries. Mike threatens to fire me. I keep looking.

 **A week later**

I'm running out of ideas.

 **Two weeks**

I go to AA. To look for him.

I find Maggie.

"You have to let him come back himself."

"No."

"Why? What do you think will happen when you find him?"

"I don't know. I just know I need to find him."

She sighs. It's heavier than the fog smothering the city. Even fucking mother nature is trying her best to hide him from me.

"Emmett liked things to be just so … in order," she says.

I shake my head. "How do you know?"

"Because I talked to him, like I talk to you, like I talk to everyone here. Like you should, too."

"I don't want to." I answer before I think, then skip her to the next subject. "Did he give any other ideas to where he would go?"

"No, but he likes his routine, so I guess, even though he's spinning, somehow he'll be holding on to that."

The meeting has already started. No Em, and no us. "Then why is he not here?"

She stands and rests her hand on my shoulder, squeezing with her brittle-boned fingers, lighter than a ghost. "Maybe he is."

I finish the end of my smoke, rolling her words like a marble in my head. The parking lot is dark, all the cars empty. Bella's old restaurant is full, windows steamed, greasy spices leaching into the night. The bar opposite pulses with music, its lights smokey red and blue in the fog. I breathe the last hit of nicotine deep down into my lugs, holding it for maximum burn, waiting for it to do its damage before I blow it into the night. Then I cross the road for the first time since Bella and push open the door to Jack's. It takes me less than ten seconds to find him.

I fire off a text to Rose. My hands are shaking. I can't decide whether it's relief or because I'm about to face the darkest version of myself. An addict in a hundred-mile-an-hour freefall.

 **Too late.**

* * *

 _AN: Thank you for doing this with me. xx_


	20. Chapter 20

**(Twenty)**

I hover in the entrance, watching him as he gazes out of the window. He must have seen me crossing the street, but he doesn't register. He has a glass in front of him. Looks untouched. Looks like whisky.

He still doesn't move when I pull out the stool and sit down next to him.

I don't even know where to start.

 _How're things?_

 _You okay?_

 _What the fuck?_

I go for the latter.

He looks over at me, and I can see he's exhausted, but I can't tell if he's drunk.

"Hey, E. How've you been?"

I can't help but frown at him. "Really?"

"I don't want to talk about me."

"Well, tough shit." I raise my voice enough to draw the attention of a couple at the next table. They only have to get one look at my face before they look away. "What the fuck are you doing, Em? Where have you been? Do you have any clue what you're putting Rose through?"

He winces and shakes his head slowly, sinking into himself. I'd feel bad if I wasn't so pissed off.

I see the same nosy couple conspiratorially whispering to the bartender. Glances are shot our way.

"I think you should start at the beginning, but maybe we should get out of here first."

"No, I want to stay. There's still half an hour left."

"Of what?" I ask, hoping to hell he's not going to say Happy Hour.

"The meeting."

"It's a bit late to start worrying about your meeting attendance." I'm torn between the kid gloves approach and knocking his teeth out.

"No, but … I don't know. I don't want to leave yet."

I'm finding my way through the unknown here and can already feel myself sinking into the mud.

I'd be a terrible fucking sponsor.

I go for the easiest option, get rid of the booze. AA 101. Though whisky on the rocks would make this a whole lot easier. A cluster of cells in my brain tempt me with the idea of throwing myself off the wagon and joining Em, but for once it's an easy decision to order a club soda for us both. While I wait, it gives me a chance to text Rose. My phone's lit up with missed calls, but now's not the time to get into a debate with her. I text her that he's okay, and go and swap around his drinks.

He holds his glass, the condensation dripping over his fingers, but he doesn't drink it. We watch the traffic, sirens in the distance, and people walking by for a good few minutes before he speaks. "I don't deserve them."

It hurts me more than I'd like to admit to tell him the truth. "No, you don't deserve them." I let it sink him, tug him lower than I meant to. "But you don't deserve this, either. You're a good person, you're a brilliant dad, and, okay, you were a shitty husband, but that was five years ago. You can't let it do this to you, Em." My throat is scratchy and heavy from holding back the sadness at seeing him like this. Seeing him as the addict and not the sponsor. The weak instead of the strong. Me instead of him. "You can't let it destroy you and everything you have."

"It already has. Rose hates me, and the kids … I've lost them."

The rock in my throat becomes almost unbearable as he swipes away at a lone tear. I take a drink to shove it back into the pit of my stomach. "You haven't, Em. You'll never lose them. You need help, that's all. You can't fight this on your own."

He laughs quietly and looks at me dead on for the first time since I arrived. "I hope you're listening to your own advice."

"Maybe," I say, shrugging. "But this isn't me, for once. It's you, and I won't let you do this."

"It's too late, E. I'm sorry." He pushes his drink away and stands, scraping his chair across the floor.

I grab onto his arm, feel the sway in his body. He's stone-cold hammered. "Why? Just stay here. Talk to me."

"I can't," he says, nodding to the red lights glowing brighter against the windows, growing brighter and louder. "Did you tell someone I was here?"

"Only Rose."

"I've got to go now."

"What the fuck," I mutter under my breath.

He stands and starts to put on his coat as the siren gets louder; the flashing lights are all I can see.

"Tell them I'm sorry," he says.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I grab him harder this time, yank him back to me. He lets me, but then puts his hand over mine and prizes it off.

"Tell her. Tell her I didn't mean for any of this."

Two cops push open the door, the first speaking into the radio on his shoulder as their eyes land on Em. They make a beeline for us, the second officer already has the cuffs out. I block their path and move again as they try to sidestep me. I get a warning. And another when I don't move. Then I feel Em's hand on my shoulder.

"It's okay. I'm going with them."

"I don't understand." I stand aside but keep my body angled in front of him, addressing the cops, "Why are you here?"

"Step aside, sir. I won't ask you again." The taller one steps forward and slaps the cuffs on Em's wrists. The whole bar is in freeze-frame, no one moves, everyone watches. Even the music jams.

"Can someone, please, tell me what in the hell is happening here?"

Em is mute, his shoulders slumped, eyes closed.

The officer fills us all in with a pleasure that makes my blood burn. "Emmett McCarty, you're under arrest on suspicion of driving under the influence and malicious wounding—"

"No, you're wrong." I shake my head at them, pushing my way forward, but the broken look Em gives me tells me it's no use. That they're not mistaken.

"I didn't see him," is all he says as he walks out with the cops and is shoved into the back of the squad car. I stand and watch them disappear into the fog, the siren no longer blaring, the criminal caught. Em's last words and the grief in his face are stamped into my mind until it bleeds.

I'm helpless to do anything. I was too late. If I'd spoken to him yesterday, last week, last month, any day in between. If I'd seen something other than my selfish fucking obsession with myself, I might have stopped whatever has happened. I've been too wrapped up in me and the liquor and now in Bella. There's nothing in my stomach, but I feel the rush of nausea cramping my guts until I vomit my guilt into the gutter.

I get the messages from Rose. She tells me what he did. Driving half a bottle deep on his way to 42nd and Blake. I see the headline the next morning.

VICTIM IN COMA DUE TO HIT AND RUN BY DRINK DRIVER.

Another life ruined by addiction.

The victim. His family. His friends.

The EMTs who had to fight to keep him alive, to piece his body back together.

Rose and the kids who will only be able to visit their daddy within reinforced walls, behind steel bars.

Em's family who will miss his love and sarcasm and jokes on birthdays and Christmases, weddings and funerals.

His friends.

My friends.

Alice.

Mom.

Dad.

It's a long, long list.

I won't be responsible for adding anyone else to it.

* * *

 _AN: Deep breaths._

 _Kim, Choc and Cat make my words pretty. x_


End file.
